Counting to 7

Bridge

The water flowed beneath me, a soothing voice to the harsh whispers in my head. 'Do it! Do it!' was all I heard in my inner prison. These were a daily thing and I finally understood what Rihanna means. I do get along with the voices. Most of them. I'm sitting on the edge of Heavens Gate bridge. Though the sign adorning the rail says Demmings Bridge but so many people have jumped it earned itself a new alias. I'm staring down at my hands, my rough uneven skin glistening with the rain. Believe it or not but I'm more scarred than my wrist is. I've got horizontal marks, diagonal ones, but the ones I'm most ashamed of are the two long vertical strokes on each arm. Try hiding them with make up. They rise about half a centimeter above my skin, like train tracks to Hell. Why bother hiding them, people should know how I feel but instead i just keep it all bottled up inside until I explode. 

Well here I am again, sitting on the edge, but unlike the song, I haven't got my two best friends. No pills, no gin, no gun. Just me and the river. But that too goes as a car rushes towards the bridge. Before it does though it halts and pulls over to the side. A young man gets out, with an umbrella. He has short black hair and nerdy glasses. He wears a black suit with a large brown jacket over the top. He reminds me of Clark Kent. He closes the door to his silver SUV and slowly walks towards me. He looks like he has done this before. 

"Miss, are you okay?" His voice is kind and concerned. It sounds like he actually cares.

All I can do is shake my head as tears start to roll down my face. He keeps walking towards me, his dress shoes slopping in the mud.

"I promise you that what ever is going on will be okay. What you are thinking of doing is not the answer. You just need to step back from the edge and you can get back onto the right track. Trust me."

"Why? Why should I trust you?"

"Miss I'm driving to work right now, I'm a Psychiatrist at the hospital. I can take you there if you need me too. I've already seen so many young people like you go from jumping from the bridge to crossing it and being fine. You can do it too."

By now he was standing behind me. His words rang through to my subconscious and shut the voices up long enough for my to fall back into this man's arms. I just cried and cried like i never had before. We shuffled back to his car, the man half carrying my shrunken frame. I collapsed into the passenger seat and he drove on, over the bridge, past Heavens Gate.