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