17

Sometimes, I run down the street with no shoes on while it’s raining. Sometimes, I scream when I do it. I live on a busy street, so it’s not always the smart thing to do. But I’ve never been someone to make the smart decisions. At this point, anyone should be glad I make decisions at all. Because if I don’t make the decisions to run shoeless on pavement in the middle of a storm, then what else is there? The feeling of the sky soaking you fundamentally. Washing away anything you’d like: tears, mascara, memories- it’s opening your arms and lungs and hoping there will be enough of something to fill you up.

Growing up has not been kind to me. My parents love me, I have food in the fridge and a sibling I’ve grown to tolerate, and unadulterated access to transportation that will take me anywhere I want to go. So, I tell my parents I’m leaving, tell my sister I’ll bring her back something nice, and take a bus to the Peace Bridge that crosses the river. I spend hours looking over the ledge. The water reminds me of the rain and lightening- of screaming until I can’t breathe and even more than that. I spend a lot of time thinking about how the water rushes to fill the ocean and think how me and the ocean aren’t much different. Does the ocean feel full? Does it reach for mountains through rivers hoping they’ll be able to take something so unequivocally not theirs? Will it make a difference?

“Are you okay?”

Anyone in my life knows that I’m not ‘okay’. I make it everyone’s problem. My second breath will always be talking about me. What I’m feeling, how hard it is, why must it be me, etc. etc. The parents that love me will look at me with worry, the sibling that I can stand will be confused but ask to hang out anyways, my friends will suggest going to the mall to get my mind off things. I’ll politely decline, and I’ll turn my eyes, so they don’t see that I see their concern. And after, I’ll keep talking about it.

The person standing next to me, arms resting on the ledge in front of them, doesn’t know any of this. So, I shrug, because to explain it would be to give it attention. Names have power and all that. He keeps looking ahead, watching the pink sun reflect off the current. He reminds me of a dad I never had. Not because he’s dead, but because my dad would never stand next to me on the Peace Bridge watching the water, not caring one way or another if I give him an answer. I wonder if the fall would kill me.

“The fall won’t kill you.”

My head snaps to him, and before I can remember that I want to be someone who isn’t taken by surprise, an aborted question escapes my throat. “I’ve been to this bridge everyday for the last ten years. I spend a lot of timing thinking whether the fall will kill me. Today, I’ve decided it won’t.” He drops his head over the side of the railing, as if he could judge the distance from a bird’s eye view. This doesn’t make sense. How can you decide whether or not a fall will kill you? It either does or it doesn’t, and that’s entirely based on how high they built it. Did this man build the bridge? Unlikely but not impossible. If that’s the case, then why has he been here everyday for a decade? He would hypothetically still have a job that he had to do, and it’s incredibly unlikely that he would have found time every day to come here. Maybe he was the architect? I turn my gaze back to the river.

Or maybe he was just a guy who decided to talk to a young girl on a Wednesday night. Wouldn’t be the first time. When I looked from the corner of my eye, I could see the bags under his eyes before I could see anything else. His clothes are old but not sloppy, his shoes well worn but what might have been repaired. All in all, he looked fine. He looked comfortable. He looked like someone who had come to a bridge everyday for ten years.

The sun is quickly vanishing from the sky, the mountains providing cover much quicker than the light disappearing. It’ll still be another hour or so before stars even start appearing, let alone any that I’ll be able to see from here. I wish this man would leave me alone. I wish it was darker quicker, so I had a better excuse to leave. I wish I couldn’t see my own dark circles in this man’s face. I think about my friends at the mall. I wonder how much longer they’ll be there. I wonder if my sister wants ice cream.

“Will this fall kill you?” His voice is not his voice. The water rushing below us has drowned out the rest of the noise. The cars that honk near incessantly have gone quiet. The lights above us have blurred so it’s only the last vestiges of sunlight that keep us visible. I won’t turn my head. How could you possibly meet yourself head on?

I see myself from the corner of my eye. My eye bags, my old clothes, my worn-down shoes. Still here, ten years later, on the bridge and staring down at the ever-changing water. I’m not scared. I haven’t been scared in a long time (I’m always scared), and this is not something I think is happening in real life (I have never been more aware of my own body). Still, I want to turn this question over in my mind. Will this fall kill me?

Has it already? Am I a ghost haunting this life, destined to return to the bridge, wondering if an already-dead girl will finally die? The water still rushes, and the sun still sets, and I still wonder if I’m going to die today. Today, I’ve decided it won’t. Was belief strong enough to combat the inevitable? Is it inevitable in the first place? I think of the person beside me, and their tired eyes. Ten years they’ve been coming to this bridge, and for ten years they’ve decided that the fall won’t kill them. Ten years they’ve been fighting the fall. The inevitable fall.

I think about fighting for ten years, and how tired my eyes will be then. I think of screaming in the rain now and hoping something will come and fill me so full that I’ll choke. The sun has set, and I have to decide.

I think of the rain, and screaming, and the rushing water below me. My parents at home, waiting for me. My sister’s ice cream. My friends at the food court. The bridge. The bridge that will be here tomorrow- ten years from now. I turn my head to the person beside me, and instead I see a retreating figure into the rain. I wonder if they will be here ten years from now. If I will.

I slip off my sandals and head the other way, towards the bus stop.