Member-only story
The Bridge
** Contains strong language and themes of mortality and violence. **
Section 1
It started here, on this bridge. A December day with the temperature falling. Away from the crowds, the shoppers, the revellers spilling out of the pub.
The cold waters of the Kelvin running beneath me: timeless, endless.
A police siren sounds as a car rolls by.
How cold is the water?
How fast could that guitar be in the river?
The notebook. Townes through the headphones.
Waiting Around to Die.
I think of the cold room. Time — all this time — so much time. Silence. Not getting that back.
My hands deep in my pockets, guarding against the cold. A cough rattling around my chest. The guitar case beside me, leaning against the bridge. I think back to last night. The drunk, stumbling up the street:
“Give me that guitar or I’ll fucking stab you, you fucking prick.”
His breath stinking of booze, a sneer across his face.
I took a hand from my pocket, checked my raw knuckles — still red.
I sighed and looked down at the river. I thought of my notebook:
