The Bridge

Chapter 1: The Fall

A/N Bonjour Y'all! This is just a story that I came up with on the fly. Like I said, there will be mentions of death, suicide and maybe some self-harm. Let's just dive in, I hope you guys enjoy!

It was a cold Saturday night. There were no cars on the road and the only sound you could hear was the rustling of the midsummer's wind through the bushes. I took out my camera thankful for the light that remained in the pink and golden sky. I started to photograph the bridge. The cracks in the stone were old and could tell you a thousand tales. The tall white lamps flickered with every heaving breath that I took. Sometimes you could see candles on the sidelines and it gave everyone the creeps, except for me.

My sister died when I was 4. She got into a fight with mom and I remember hearing them scream upstairs. She got so mad at mom and decided to run away. She was only 9 and we assumed that she was outside sitting on the cold stones in the grass. Five hours passed. Mom and I exchanged nervous glances as she opened the door and gasped outside. I looked outside to see my beloved sister sprawled on the floor, the crimson liquid drowning her from being run over. Ever since that, people gave me the blue wildflowers that bloomed in the brambles. Since then I was Wildflower. I always thought about the fact that flowers couldn't help heal a wound cut so deep, but I thanked them. As the days passed, I missed her but; I took the advice from my therapist to forget her. She said my suffering would end. Although I still can't help sneaking the few thoughts I remember every now and then. I remember the way her jet-black hair swirled around her face whenever the wind blew. I will always have to keep it a secret. My parents threw away all the pictures of her. They kept telling me it was the only way to feel better about the loss. To me, they all sounded like zombies, stumbling around everywhere refusing to believe in anything.

The week after the death, two women came to our house to "wash" the memory. I always thought that if you remember something as hard as I did, you will never forget. During the process of the washing, I only remember the claim of experimentation. Maybe the memories were the worst form of torture.

I regained focus and started to trace my finger along the marbled cracks. They called it Suicide Bridge. It really was too beautiful to die on. It was built in the 1913 and ever since they finished the construction, people jumped off the bridge. Twenty-eight people have had their lives taken away by their own two feet. It unsettled me, but the Bridge was still wonderful.

Either way, it was getting darker. I heard a rustle in the bushes. I thought it was a squirrel, but it continued getting louder and louder. I spun around in fear trading the camera with a flashlight from my bag. My hand shook as I turned it on. "Hello" I murmured breathlessly. I was responded by silence. I thought about how ridiculous it was that I got so scared over what appeared to be a squirrel. I continued to hold the flashlight thankful for charging it this morning. I walked off the bridge walkway and onto the grassy road beside it. I was getting tired and my eyelids began to droop. Then I tripped over something sharp and busted my lip open. Blood spilled everywhere. I got up in pain and started to walk home attempting to cover my lip with my sleeve from my shirt. I thought I was fine out here, but then I heard a scream.