He sighed as he leaned against the railing of the bridge, a cigarette between his lips. The dried blood on his face starting to bother him. He ran a hand through his ash brown hair, slightly tugging on his ear. It was getting colder, she stood up drawing the cig from his lips letting out a cloud of the smoke, burning his eyes and nose. He sniffled slightly, the scabbing blood slightly clogging him up. He stared out at the cityscape before him, the bright lights illuminating the horizon. His eyes soon trailing to the woman that stood before him. She was there every night, both of them were. They had never spoken. He knew she couldn't be any older than him, he'd watch her stand on the railing, spreading her arms out and leaning out just slightly. Soon to climb back down, he wondered if she ever noticed him, standing there smoking his cigarettes, just a few feet away. He wondered if she knew that he understood exactly what she felt.
He wondered if she was as beaten and bruised as him.
He scoffed slightly bringing the cancer stick back to his lips. Glancing at his bloodied knuckles, he laughed at the thought of her in his position. He was a street fighter, doing whatever fights he can to scrounge up some cash to take care of his sister. He glanced at her one last time, she looked free, the wind whipping her hair around, he wanted to feel like that. He took a long drag, letting the smoke burn the back of his throat.
He could never feel like that, because he was dead, just like his mother. A monster like his father.
He was tired, but he had to be there for His sister.
He sighed stubbing the cigarette out, thinking of how he needed to quit. As he walked towards the end of the bridge, he counted the cash he had made. He did good, better than most nights. Cramming the cash back into is pockets he flipped up his hood starting to the parking by the start of the bridge. He sighed again, pulling the key out of his pocket as he neared his 1985 Ford Escort. After he climbed into the seat, he keyed the engine letting it idle there as he rested his head back against the seat taking a deep breath. He sighed again, something he's been doing a lot. He made his way out of the lot starting towards the house, hoping he doesn't have to deal with his next fight, a fight he never seemed to win. as he turned to his block, he groaned loudly seeing the house light still on. His bastard of a father was most likely up. He parked, climbing out before slowly making his way to the house. Bottles littered the small courtyard of the house. He held his breath as he turned the knob, unlocked, meaning his father stumbled in drunk most likely. He grits his heat, nostrils flaring as he walked through softly closing the door behind him. He turned the lock wincing at how loud it sounded in the quiet house. When he turned, he saw his sister trying to creep towards the stairs, their father passed out on the couch. He motioned for her to move faster, as he slipped off his shoes, following her.
He followed her up the stairs, walking her to her room.
"Remember to lock your door." He whispered to her, she smiled hugging him before closing the door. He waited to hear the click of the door locking. He walked down to his room cracking open the window, he picked up every pack of cigarettes for one. A sigh of relief left his lips as he finally found a pack that wasn't finished. He pulled his lighter out his pocket, tossing the empty pack to the ground before lighting the cig and taking in a deep drag, letting it go to his head inciting a soft cough. He knew better than to setting into bed with the cig in his hand. After a few puffs, he stubbed it out against his thumb wincing from the pain. He pulled off his sweater settling in bed, he picked up the book from his side-table, Sun Tzu's The Art of War.
He was just drifting off to sleep when he heard the commotion. He sprung off the bed his book dropping to his littered floor, rushing out his room. He quickly assessed the scene before him. His father stood pressed against his sister's door, a bottle of Captain Morgan in hand, words slurred.
"Come on baby," his father started, a wicked smile spreading on his face. "Let me in, sweetheart come'n do me a little favor."
"Get the fuck away from her." He began, "I'm warning you."
His father turned to him, stumbling slightly. The bottle had dropped, his father pulling out a pocket knife wobbling up to him, the knife pointed at his neck. "Piss off, this isn't any of your business."
He could feel the anger boiling, He felt like a kettle, whistleblowing, waiting for someone to take it off the fire. He felt like he was shaking, ready to explode. He and his father stood looking into each other's eyes. If anyone could hear his thought's they'd call the cops already. His father should've known better than to pull a weapon of any sorts on him. The only thing that stopped Him was his attempt to defuse some of his anger. The sob that rippled from his sister's room is what pulled the pin of the grenade. Without a second thought, his father was disarmed, followed by a harsh chop to his father's throat causing him to cough, and sputter. Soon followed by a punch to his father's face. Once he had started punch, he didn't stop. He just kept punching him again and again and again. He couldn't hear his sister's screams for him to stop, warning him of the cops coming, he didn't hear her repeatedly screaming his name in hope to get his attention. It was His turn to win this fight, this time he wasn't going to let his father get up. So much anger was built up in him, his mother's death, his father's lack of caring, having to drop out of school, having to support his father's addiction, the fact his father was who he was, the fact that his father even attempted to touch his sister again. The fights, it was all so much, and he had to deal with it all himself in a false attempt of masculinity.
"Austin!" a loud crunching and sound of him name pulling him out. He sat back, over his father's unconscious bloodied body. He looked at his trembling hands, covered in blood. He was wide-eyed as the police walked up the steps to them, calling the code into their radio approaching him, guns pointed. One of the officers approached his sister, holstering his gun and pulling off his coat to wrap her in. He watched them escort his sister out, the female officer still standing gun trained on him.
"Sir, please move away from the body."
His chest heaved as he considered not listening letting her pull the trigger, not as she would. He held a certain privilege, though it was unspoken it was there. He glanced at the direction they had taken his sister deciding to listen. Climbing off his father he lied on his stomach. Hands behind his back legs crossed, he knew the protocol. As the woman cuffed him, she muttered something about his rights. For some reason He didn't say anything, he didn't try explaining what happened, he just let her pull him up and escort him out as another officer looked after his unconscious father. It was because he truly no longer cared, He didn't care if he killed his father, he didn't care for the neighbor's stares at him as they pushed into the cruiser. He didn't care because he knew that he was the only one who would ever get in trouble, what happened didn't matter.
He found that he hated the sound of sirens.
YOU ARE READING
Bridge Jump (rewrite)
Short Story"Some stories are just supposed to end sad." Book 1 * * * Everyone is more alike then we think. When two people from different walks of life meet on a small bridge in the lower east end of Brooklyn, they confide into one another, but just as fas...
