The Bridge

She stood at one side of the bridge, the cold air sweeping her dark hair around her, and almost into her sad, ash eyes. She leaned against the small, stubby wall, so that she was stooping over it, staring mindlessly into the cool, clear dark water as the small, deep river miles below twisted and turned, gushing over motionless rocks. The trees bent over the river, or stood alongside it, the willow tree's leaves swooping and moving to and fro, as if beckoning her into joining the rocks at the river's bed in a deep, entranced slumber.

Just as she was about to jump, she heard voices. Each one of those who had wronged her. Each one trying to apologise and persuade her to come home. She turned around and saw them all there in her mind's eye. She turned back, stepped up onto the crumbled wall and turned around. No one was there and there was the sound of nothing but the gentle trickle of the vicious river and the beckoning fingers of the willow tree gently scraping her shoulder. Her tear slid down her cheek and onto the dusty dirt on the bridge. She emptied her mind of all thoughts and gently forced herself to fall backward and into the river.

For the first few moments, the icy air was beneath her and she was floating. Then the freezing hands of the river pulled her to the jagged rocks at the bottom. The moon shone sweetly and peacefully on the sparkling river, now containing a fresh corpse, while the willow tree stroked the river's soft surface, a lone nightingale sang and all was peaceful again.