Chapter 1
The breeze of a cool autumn dusk flows against my skin and breathes within me. I hear the fast, repetitive click and whir of gears as I turn the pedals of an old, paint-chipped bike where rust shows in the places that the metallic coat has cracked and hardened flecks of paint have fallen away.
With the setting sun on a distant, lonely horizon, colouring the streaks of cloud above in many warm oranges and purples, and the coldness of the season flowing through my veins, I feel alive as I pump my legs harder and gain speed for the upcoming incline.
The world seems far and frozen. I’m not really here. Behind me, a long road stretches for miles in one direction. In front of me, I face a tall, long bridge. An arch of pavement, where on either side of the desolate road cracked , white sidewalks go on forever. I don’t need to look about me to know my surroundings—I’m all too familiar with this place. There’s a metal railing on the outer edge of each sidewalk which curves inwards to act as a barrier on the outer edges of the bridge. Thankfully, too. I’m afraid of heights.
I cannot tell what lies on the other side of the bridge, only that it will be a hell of a good time getting up, and the light of the evening wanes. I push harder, go faster, near the beginning of the incline...
and then it happens.
All of a sudden.
It has happened before. And although I cannot ever tell why, it feels slightly more terrifying each time.
The cold gets worse. The colours above intensify, and so does my adrenaline. But this is not the life-giving cold of autumn, not the kind that rushes through your veins and gives you spirit after a race or an exciting brush with danger. This cold is the breath of a beast.
Something evil, although I cannot tell what, pursues me. And every time it happens, I refuse to turn my head. I refuse to look back. I just keep. On. Pedalling.
But the cold worsens, although in most cases, my calves would burn at the struggle of making this intimidating flight to the top of the bridge. The same bridge, over and over again. And then I go numb. Starting with my feet, and then my fingertips... the numbness spreads and crawls through my body, and it becomes increasingly harder to fight the cold.
But I’m going up now. And then the worst part begins, the world slows down, dragging on the intense and terrifying struggle of each moment. Slowly, the world grows darker. The colours begin to fade. The scary, beautiful world I love washes away. And terror pursues me, it grows nearer with every second. I don’t know what to do, I never know what to do—except go up, flee.
I would like to know what view lies over the peak of the bridge, except fleeing never saves me. Slowly, my hands, which I can no longer feel, turn brittle. And much like the old, rusted bike that I ride, my outer layer cracks and chips. My skin turns into an ill-maintained, old coat of paint, and slowly, like hardened paint, flecks of my skin peel and fly away. It doesn’t happen in the organic manner that most would expect, like real skin. It happens exactly like old paint, slowly falling away. My flesh is no longer flesh, it is dust. Starting from my fingertips and spreading to my wrists, dust falls and is carried off by the wind as my hand disintegrates. Soon, only my forearms are left, and I push them down onto the tops of my handlebars so that I can keep moving and stay up. It doesn’t work. Soon, my forearms turn to dust, also, and I can’t hold on. But I keep pushing. The rest follows like clockwork. My legs give up, I stop trying to pedal. I put my numb feet on the ground and stand still, only metres below the horizon of the bridge, which I cannot ever reach. I have no arms. I close my eyes. And soon, I am all dust, being carried away by the sky’s current.
The sun disappears.
