Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Welcome. Want a drink?” I ask.
Her head whips toward me, a startled expression on her face. “What are you doing up here? Who are you?”
I raise the bottle. “You know, just having a drink. Enjoying the breeze.” I hold out my arms. “The usual thing one does on a bridge.”
I can’t see her face, but I can practically hear her roll her eyes. “Sure, I always climb to the top of the highest bridge in town and teeter over the edge of the railing just to feel the wind and have a nightcap.” Her voice drips sarcasm.
“You got a better reason for being up here?” I ask, taking another swig.
“Maybe not better,” she says, her voice losing some of its edge. “I just wanted to be alone.”
“Ditto.”
After a few seconds of silence, with only the sound of the occasional car passing behind us and the soft waves crashing into the mangroves below, she speaks again. “What happened to your face?”
I shrug. “I fell.”
“You fell?” she asks, not buying it. “Let me guess, down a flight of stairs?”
“Nope, upon the fists of angry truckers,” I grate, remembering the night’s events more and more clearly with each passing moment. The trucker I tried to rob. The beating I got in exchange.
Her hair floats around her face as she looks down below her swaying feet. Almost as if she’s contemplating the distance.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“There.” She points to the other side of the bridge. “You?”
“Here. There. Everywhere. Mostly just the streets.”
She doesn’t reply. She’s too focused on her feet, or more accurately, what’s beyond her feet.
“You going to jump?” I ask, casually.
“I’m not sure,” she whispers. “I don’t think so, but also, I’m just…not sure.” She’s still looking below when she adds, “The boundaries which divide life and death are, at best, shadowy and vague.”
I huff. “Ah, good ole, EAP,” I say, then reply with a quote of my own. “’I was never insane except upon occasions where my heart was touched.’”
“Very good, you know Edgar Allan Poe?” she asks, finally looking up. I can almost see the surprised look on her face even in the darkness. The tone of her voice is…cute? I don’t remember ever thinking anything or anyone was cute before.
“What reasons could you possibly have to be up here?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “You first.”
I try to take a deep breath, but I can’t. Not yet. It’s like both my brain and my lungs don’t think I’m ready for that kind of effort. “I’m just trying to catch my fucking breath and figure shit out.”
“Okay, but WHY?” she presses.
“You don’t want to know, but trust me, my reasons would make your fucking skin crawl. Why are you up here? Trust-fund not as much as you thought? Oh, no, let me guess, you got a Mercedes instead of the Tesla you wanted for your birthday,” I say.
“If only any of those were the real issue. Let’s just say that if I were to jump right here and now that I have reasons, and that nobody would be surprised,” she says. She inhales deeply. “It really is beautiful up here isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it kind of is,” I agree.
“Can you tell me why? I don’t care if my skin crawls,” she says, her voice pleading almost like she isn’t just curious, but for some reason, she NEEDS to know. “Does it have to do with why you look like you have a peanut allergy, but just smeared peanut butter all over your face anyway?”
I didn’t realize she can see me that well since she’s covered in shadows. “What does it matter?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “I’m not sure, but it does.”
“Fine. It’s drugs,” I lie. I’m not spilling my guts to a stranger, no matter how beautiful this one might be.
“That’s a lie. Try again.” She lifts her bare foot off the ledge and dangles it in the air like she’s testing the wind on her skin. She’s only holding on to one of the wires now.
I growl at her new boldness, but what do I care if she jumps? But I do care, even if I don’t want to.
I give her a very shortened version of my story. “Fine, the truth is that I live on the streets. I was in the system my whole life and recently found out I have a brother. I ran away and went looking for him. Found out he’s dead. Needing some cash for a place to stay I stole from a trucker tonight, who retaliated with several of his bigger and badder buddies who beat the living shit out of me.” Amongst other things.
I feel the burn of regret and the pleasure of relief all at once.
“Makes sense,” she says without a trace of pity in her voice.
“Your turn,” I say. “You said no one would be surprised if you killed yourself. Why?” What I mean is, what issues could a beautiful rich girl like you have to be up here right now?