One Step Beyond
The water under the bridge is dark. The kind of dark that seems to sweep away whatever has the misfortune of falling into its grasp. The kind of dark that scares people away with its intensity, with its mystery. The kind of dark that can only be described as haunted. Some people would say it is, creating tales in their minds that spiral from the doorsteps of their neighbors to the ghost stories told around the bonfires at night. They could come down to the river and find out for themselves what lurks in the shadows of the bridge, but they don’t, because under their bold stances and fevered stories they don’t want to know what is under the bridge, instead remaining in the world of fantasy they created, the place where they controlled the endings. Those who don’t dabble in the world of uncertainty went and found out for themselves. They sit now atop their throne of knowledge, unwilling to share, but more than willing to judge.
I always liked the bridge, more because no one else did than for any reason I could call my own. I thought it was funny how science kept away the smart and tales instilled fear in the foolhardy. I found the bridge three years ago when I was walking Jamie to school for the first day of second grade. She had wanted to stay on the sidewalk, but I never met a shortcut that didn’t call me towards it. I let her walk the rest of the way on her own so I could have a few stolen moments down the overgrown dirt trail for the sole purpose of sucking in the adventure tainted air. I followed the trail for a few minutes, my feet catching on the roots and by hands shoving low hanging branches out of my face. When I first saw the river it was blue and clear and bubbling with a childish laughter. I watched it out of the corner of my eye as I ran towards the unknown, I watched it as I waited to find what was so special about this place that it was hidden from the rest of the world. I waited until I realized that the stream was the very thing I was looking for. I stepped off the path and followed it. The water started out blue than it morphed into something more brown, growing darker by the second, there wasn’t an exact place where the water turned jet black, the only thing that mattered was that it did.
The bridge is made of rusted steel and flaking brown paint. I like to pretend it is all mine and, in a manner of speaking, it is, because everyone else avoids it like the plague. On days like today I sit on the bridge, with my back pressed hard against the ragged metal, my homework spilling out of my bag and settling around me. I come here to draw. I carefully balance my pencil case against my thigh, perch my worn notebook on my knees, and draw until my fingers are too stiff to hold the pencils. Sometimes I draw my family as I imagine them going about their Saturday without me. Sometimes I draw the kids from my school dangling over the edge of the bridge or careening towards the black water below. Most times I draw portraits of the squirrels who venture too close to my sanctuary.
When I finally stand up, my sore muscles groaning in protest, everythings feels the same, except that aching in my heart is a little less painful. I carefully check that all my pencils are tucked inside the case and I close the notebook, returning it to my backpack, which I sling over my shoulder. I don’t know what would happen if something fell into the black water below the bridge. It might just get wet, but I’ve imagined other, much more creative alternatives for how the water will escort my papers to their end. If it even is water at all. I’ve even thought about what might happen if a person fell, a person I didn’t like. Those stories I always keep to myself.
I skip towards the path. I think my mom is making lasagna for dinner, my dad will be home from work soon. I can almost hear the laughter over dinner, see how the candles light up the laughing faces, taste the food. My mouth waters. I look down the path in anticipation and that's when my foot slips and I go weightless over the black water under the bridge.
1A: Such an awful way to go, Thomas thought to himself as he watched the girl fall off the path.
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