Other Stories from the Author

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“There must be a better way than this,” she said to herself.  “If only I could do this medically without the pain.”

Anne stood on the sidewalk of the bridge.  It was 3AM.  She looked down at the rocks and the rushing water and wondered if she would die instantly on impact or if she would suffer any pain.

Anne was accustomed to suffering.  She felt as though she suffered her whole life.  She always thought she never experienced any real happiness.  All the birthdays and Christmases were just temporary moments of would-be happiness; the placebo effect associated with happy times that didn’t last.

She looked down at the rocks.

“How many people died doing this?” she thought to herself.  And then she remembered all the stories that people told about those who jumped off the bridge.  That time when a girl’s father was left holding her coat after she slipped out of the garment as he struggled to prevent her from jumping.  Another woman jumped from the wrong spot and ended up on the rocks only to survive.  She was rescued and suffered such severe damage to her pelvis that she was never able to walk normally again.

“Will I end up like her, a freak that everyone ridicules, an even bigger failure because she failed at jumping off the bridge to a certain death whereas everyone else in history successfully died?”

Lyrics from a Smith’s song kept repeating in her head.

“When you laugh about people who feel so

Very lonely

Their only desire is to die

Well, I'm afraid

It doesn't make me smile…

“It's too close to home

And it's too near the bone

It's too close to home

And it's too near the bone

More than you'll ever know…”

These lyrics resonated in her soul.  She was tired of the hate, tired of the fakeness of people, tired of the ridicule for being good at what she did.  Her short stories were the talk of her English class.  They were so good, so deep, so amazing.  Some students joked they would be included in future editions of “Our Literary Heritage” the class textbook.  She was a high school philosopher, having read Nietzsche’s books.  She always dressed in black and gray at a time when pastel colored clothing was the “in” thing.  On Sundays during the summer, she sat on the large steps of her old elementary school and philosophized to people walking by, most of whom were going to church. 

“I wonder if I should’ve left a note?”

A note that would be read a thousand times by her parents, she thought.  A note that would be deciphered, interpreted, misinterpreted and twisted to fit whatever narrative her parents would want it to fit.  Ultimately, they would blame the music.  That horrible music she listened to all the time.  The Smiths, Joy Division, This Mortal Coil, Tears for Fears, New Order.  

“My parents are perfect,” she thought.  “Perfectly inept to handle a teenager with a high IQ.  A teenager who feels unloved by the ones who claim to love her.”

She had been practicing for death for a few years.  Often, she wandered into a cemetery at night and lay down on a grave and wondered what being dead felt like.  But now was the time to do it.  Going home was not an option and running away was a one-way ticket to a living hell and so death was now the only choice left, she thought.

She turned around to look at the bridge and then turned her head to the right to look at the lights from the town.  From seemingly nowhere, a car appeared on the bridge traveling at a great speed.  It spun out of control in the center of the bridge and then accelerated.  The front of the car’s grill struck Anne and pushed her up against the large railing as though it was trying to push her off the bridge.  When the police arrived, Anne was still alive but fading in and out of consciousness.

“Ma’m can you hear me?” said the police officer who attended to her.

“Yes, but I can’t feel anything.  Am I going to die?” she asked in a garbled voice.

“You’ll be alright,” the officer said reassuringly.

“I don’t want to die,” she said and took her last breath.