The Bridge

The skyline flickers on, like a tired parent flipped a switch in the living room after putting the kids to bed. The deep grey of the sky melts into the surrounding mountain tops, their jagged tips and edges dusted with out of season snow. The Manhattan Bridge creaks above my head as I look around wondering where the mountain at my feet sprung from. The sky seeps down the atmosphere, engulfing me in night, dripping into the horizon. The bridge shines against the navy backdrop, more silent than usual. My feet are firmly planted and ready to assist my ascent. The team I travel with is made up of familiar, nameless faces. Something is wrong, the air reeks of it.

The screams pierce through the night, echoing off the peaks and skyscrapers, and I don't need to look to know what has happened. But I do. The bridge is lined with girls. Seemingly normal, upper middle class white girls holding hands on the outer edge of the steel suspension. They are jumping. They are contemplating jumping. They are crying and screaming and full of pain. I can do nothing but watch and writhe with discomfort, begging my eyes to open, begging the screaming to stop, begging myself to remember this moment. Waking panting and wondering why these dreams repeat themselves.