A rundown bridge is a perfect place to hangout, at least that’s what I think. My friends call it “a piece of junk”. It can’t get better, though it does have alot of cracks and a few holes peppering it. Fixing it would make it look better, and people would appreciate it more. All of the older people, the grown-ups, say that it’s haunted.I know the truth about the bridge. Noone will listen to me, or even look me in the eye to say, “Hello, how are you today?” or “What’s your name?”. The bridge isn’t that bad… is it?
One day, I was looking over the bridge rails and into the lake below. I never noticed that the veiw was so beutiful. The fish were swimming under the delicate, golden sheet the morning sun cast over the water. Then, heard footsteps coming toward me. As they slowly grew louder, I turned around and saw a kid about my age. He stared at me in the center of my eye, a sign of respect I’ve never felt before, and said, “Hi! What’s your name?”.
These were the words I wanted to hear all of my life. I stood there, staring, hesitating with a dumbfounded look on my face. I thought to myself, this is the first time I’ve heared these words. Then I thought, wha is my name? Realization hit me in the head like a stone. I’ve lived on the bridge my whole life, I never met my mother, I don’t even have any friends. A thought of an orphan. At that moment, I turned around, and ran away.
