The Bridge
I can see it from my small, rectangular, window. A big, grey bridge, over the deep, dark blue bed of water. The Bridge, where cars go through, as well as joggers and pedestrians do daily. Even though I’ m on the 12 th floor, I can her the car’ s horns honking in frustration, trying to cross the Bridge over the water, to leave the traffic. The vehicles always remind me of bugs going from one side to the other; the people who cross, remind me of tiny, little ants crossing each other.
The background that surrounds her, the Bridge, always makes her beautiful. At night, when the sky is off and the building lights are on, she glimmers on the water, both her lights and the city’ s. In the day time, when she’ s busy, she’ s still so beautiful and alive with the cars and people admiring her, visiting her, studying her … The Bridge. Why do I have to see her from my little window every day?
When I was twelve( I’ m nineteen, now), my mum jumped off of her, the Bridge. She’ d told me to close my eyes, so I did. The last thing I remember is watching her silhouette fall, and in fear, I opened my eyes in time to see my mum a thousand feet below the Bridge, and splash into the water. I don’ t recall much after that. Someone, Elise, saw me in an emotional breakdown, and called for help. She’ s calmed me down, and we both watched as the fire department lifted my mum’ s lifeless corpse, out of the water.
I ended up staying with Elise. She was short, and had a pixielike structure, with long, black hair. She meant well to help me