Tortured Soul

Otherworldly lights winked in the freezing mist swirling off the river. It's beautiful. Sometimes. Like, when she's standing on the bridge with a partner. Sharing warmth. Belly full of an expensive meal, limbs lubricated by a bottle of wine. Cheeks blushed by the cold. On those nights Mishka's heart feels full. There's often a homeless person on the end of the bridge, and if she hasn't already left all her change on the table in the restaurant, she drops it at his feet. She hates walking by herself late at night, though. The cold isn't so benign when you're alone. It's vicious too, the coldest winter for many years. There's the worry that a man hiding in a dark corner might attack. These are just bog-standard, grown-up fears, though. Mishka could believe that she was standing over the Styx, not the Severn. Thick curling fog, unearthly lights... Her overactive imagination hisses: A river boiling with souls... Tonight, she doesn't feel kindly towards the shape bundled up on the corner. Fear leaves her heart shrivelled and dusty. Shrouded in shadow, he looks sinister. There's only one way home from here, meaning she must step within a pace of him to set foot on the bridge. Taking a deep breath, she forces herself to stride, banishing temerity from her footsteps. Closer. Closer. He's hunched over, head drooping. He looks like he's sleeping. Mishka curses her chunky boots and their noisy soles. Nearer still, she hears his breath rattling. Still, he hasn't looked up. Drawing level, her breath coming in frightened gasps almost as ragged as his... A blackened claw flashes out and grips her calf. Mishka shrieks. He digs his fingers in with surprising strength. I'll go over! He's going to throw me into the river of the dead! He tilts closer. Lipless, teeth rotting, eyes sunken. She screams again, but there's nobody nearby. Panicked, she lashes out, slamming her fist into his head. It makes no difference. She has nothing to use as a weapon, so she curls her fingers into his hair and slams his head into the bridge. Again. Again. He slumps, his fingers loosen, and she flees.

Later, paramedics remove the man to hospital where he's treated for hypothermia, malnutrition and head injuries. + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Friday 1st November at 19:53

Quick Author's Note

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 306 (!!!) daily micro-fiction story streak since 1st January.

ONLY SIXTY DAYS TO GO! ARRRGGGG!!!!!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day! Rachel Deeming Gerard DiLeo

[Edit - the story behind the story: I've walked this route home many times. I don't live far from the Severn. And yes, deep in wintertime, it really does look that spooky with the mist and the lights.]

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and I am extremely grateful for your ongoing support.

Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments.

I am making excellent headway catching up on reads. Where I'm already up to date with all someone's stories, I read someone else's in lieu!

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

This one will only take you a minute:

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + Thank you again!