The Bridge

10:30 PM.

Despite the strong winds attempting to push me aside, I stood still on the bridge's guardrail. The darkness of the night surrounded me as I stared in the distance. Below me, the downtown part of the city spread out, offering me a spectacle of shimmering lights coming from its lit skyscrapers, traffic lights, and moving vehicles.

31° Celsius.

In the distance, sitting atop a cross-shaped skyscraper, was a rotating spotlight, and it reminded me of a lighthouse. Next to it was another skyscraper with a pyramid-like top, lit with yellow and blue, most likely about supporting Ukraine.

I looked at the palm of my left hand and confirmed I still carried a small plastic envelope.

Ahead of me were the old city and its basilica. Closer, the old port laid right at my feet. Both the port's Old Clock and the nearby Ferris wheel were lit, and I could see tiny people going in and out of the wheel every five minutes.

I took a deep breath.

Behind me, aside from the bridge itself, was the open river. There were no other notable structures nearby, although the only exception was the Olympic Tower I could see from my vantage point. Beyond that, it was darkness.

In this evening's summer heat, the marine breeze kept me cool.

The bridge I stood on had its structure entirely covered in LEDs, light-emitting diodes and has been offering a different yet equally intriguing daily show of lights. They would have various light show according to the multiple days and seasons. They would often be lit to one of the local teams' colors when they won a game. Tonight, the lights showed a mix of blue, white, and red.

The crooked bridge, as they called it, was an architectural beauty.

The backpack I carried was illuminated by various car lights primarily pointing toward me: white, yellow, orange, and even blue. Those came from the hastily parked vehicles, and road traffic had stopped entirely. Some drivers chose to remain in their cars; others decided to stand. None of them dared approach me. I held a Glock in my right hand, and tiny traces of gunpowder were still at the end of the muzzle and on my fingers.

I have always appreciated nighttime. There was inevitable chaos emanating from it.

Unfortunately, this relaxing light exhibition was ruined by the voices of people talking to me. There were so many of them, all talking simultaneously, and I could not distinguish anything in the roar the crowd made. Could they mind their own business? I was starting to have a headache over it.

I was also high as a kite. I did a line of coke not too long ago.

Emergency services sirens were added to the roar, shattering the remainder of this beautiful summer evening. They were fast approaching my location, and it was a matter of minutes until they arrived at my location. Their sirens, coupled with the red, white, blue, and yellow flashing lights, were an eyesore to the tableau.

If emergency services made it here, they would, too.

The marine wind occasionally got caught in my red hair, sending it waving back and forth before my eyes. It also got caught in my skirt, lifting it for anyone close enough to see. People could clearly see the blood slowly sliding down my leg. When the wind lifted my skirt, they could see the bullet's impact point that wounded me.

I did not self-inflict a wound nor did the shot come from my weapon.

Mere minutes before I got shot, I had my future read in a bowl of hot water and tea leaves. The lady I have seen for years in Chinatown never missed the mark about my future. As for tonight's reading, she was right once again.

There was something eerily calming about witchcraft.

She was also a very skilled herbalist and provided me with mixtures and creams to cure various ailments and injuries. Tonight, she offered me a care package that would last several weeks and added, "we will not see each other for a while. Take this and be safe." Between the tea leaves reading and the various concoctions she produced, she was a dear friend of mine.

Since I started running, I did not find time to apply the mixture to my wounded thigh.

Screeching tires brought me back to the present moment. Emergency services were here, and I forgot they would be using the bridge's center lane to get here faster. The loudness of their siren made me wish I wore my noise-canceling earbuds. Emergency services were trying to get my attention.

I deliberately ignored them.

More tire screeching was heard coming from the center lane. Police officers told people to stay in their cars. There was a loud commotion coming from that area, and people started talking loudly, and then there was some shouting.

They were here.

I looked again at my left hand and then the right one, and I still held the plastic envelope and opened it with a thumb movement. As for my right hand, even though I knew I had my Glock, I tried to remember if I reloaded the damn thing. I could not check now, not with police officers aiming their guns at me and shouting for me to put down the gun. They also wanted me to come down the rail.

Karma is a funny thing. Be cautious about what you ask for.

The last group that arrived on the scene were my enemies. They had taken something from me long ago, and I went to reclaim it tonight. They have waited for years for this to happen, although they never expected me to do what I did. I kicked the front door and executed their leader while retrieving what was mine. I also cleansed their headquarters by burning it down.

I can understand the few remaining members being enraged at me.

Even though I did something some people would consider evil, it was for a good cause. Several criminals were now permanently retired, and an entire organization was brought to its knees.

I did not care if they rebuilt their crippling empire or not.

Some police officers started approaching me with their weapons raised, while others watched the crowds. They knew who those criminals were and kept a close eye on them. Once again, they told me to put my weapon down. Instead, I slowly held both hands in the air, on each side of my head, in a non-threatening way. My index finger was visible and resting on the side of the barrel, and it was not on the trigger.

Glocks, always ready to use weapons, did not have a child lock.

My enemies, who wore their usual classic 3-piece charcoal suits, started walking toward me, despite police telling them to stop. They continued, and a brawl ensued. The police officers who were close to me all turned around to see what was this brouhaha about. I summoned my left hand under my nose and hastily sniffed the envelope's contents.

If I wanted to survive, I needed to take it.

The brouhaha was only a diversion. One of those men stood away from the crowd and pulled a firearm, equipped with a silencer, out of his jacket. I quickly and randomly shot in his direction. The impact of the bullet hitting the asphalt made him step back. The sound attracted some officers towards him, and they tackled him to the ground, pushing his weapon away.

Now.

I did not turn back to face the river. I kept staring at my enemies because I was fully aware I could not trust them. I knew they would shoot someone in the back if they were given a chance. I quickly brought my Glock near my head and fired. As the muzzle flash did its brief appearance, my head went backward, and my whole body tilted in the same direction. I let myself fall, head first, towards the river.

A 344 feet drop.

I had more than plenty of time to prepare for my crash on the river's water. A few seconds ago, I merely feigned shooting myself in the head. I aimed towards the front of my forehead, where hair was flowing, and took my shot. Sadly, I lost a few bangs along the way. A small price to pay when feigning your death.

By the time they realize what happened, I will be sitting on a beach.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this story are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Story © Eve F. R. Kirchner