(trigger warning: Suicide, depression, abuse)
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I stood on the railing of the bridge connected Brewer and Bangor, the beautiful twin cities. The wind blew through my long, dirty blonde hair and drying the tears from my brown eyes. My pale skin was cold with the air surrounding me during the cold month of November. I looked down at the icy water covered with pieces of ice and logs floating down it.
If I jumped I would die, no doubt. The cold water would cave in on me and the pressure from it would crush my lungs. But I didn't care. I wanted to be dead. I didn't want to live anymore than others wanted me to. I just wanted to be gone. I wondered if my parents had any idea that I was about to jump to my death.
"You don't want to do it," I heard a smoke-ruined voice behind me.
I quickly swung my head around, nearly falling, but I saved myself. I saw an man with a worried expression written across his face. He had light blue eyes with messy and all over the place, curly brown hair. He was wearing a black sweatshirt with riped, acid-washed, dark blue jeans. For some reason, I felt as if the rips and acid stains were real.
"Who are you to tell me what I want?" Vaguely, I remembered the part in Titanic were Jack and Rose meet. Though, suicide is anything but romantic.
"Well, I was standing there not too long ago. And believe me, you don't want to jump." He smirked a little but I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that it was trying to hold back a sad expression.
I looked at the man, taking a deep breath, and then looked at the water that was glaring back up at me. He was right; I didn't want to do this. I wasn't so sure who this man was-Maybe an angel of some sort since he came at a moment no one knew I was about to do. Feeling a sense of humility and humbleness, I turned slowly and carefully as not to fall and stepped off the railing.
This was the only time I ever met the man. He walked me home, gave me a card for a suicide hotline and he left.
