The Jump
My arse is flush against the cold stone of the bridge wall. I lean forward, my elbows rest on my knees, my hands press up against my jaw, and I look down. I watch the traffic that moves carelessly beneath me. I’ll pick one of those vehicles that passes by. I will choose it carefully, and the driver; well, that driver’s life will change forever. A sad by-product of my end, but it’s not like I’ll be around to feel sorry about it.
Much as I try to make myself focus, concentrate on what I’m doing, on handpicking that unlucky person under whose wheels I will throw myself, my mind wanders. My eyes rise up, they pick out the tiny specks of light that sit in that black sky. I’m not just dwelling on the black cloud that has followed me through life and pissed on my every parade. It’s nighttime. It’s still and quiet, aside from the whoosh of the cars below. That and an annoying, periodic squeak in the distance.
That squeak pisses me off. It’s a distraction from thinking over all the shit that’s wrong with my life. Every moment of misery that has driven me to sit atop this bridge, waiting for the perfect 4x4 or Lorry or Mini Cooper to throw myself in front of. Hah! A Mini Cooper. I always wanted one of those. Three years ago, I'd have laughed at the irony of it. I always had kind of a grim sense of humour. I hear jokes, and three years ago I’d have pissed myself laughing at them.Now I can barely raise a smirk for the benefit of other people.
I can’t be the clown any more. These days I just feed on my own misery. I sit and mull over every disaster. I think of the men I’ve known. Shane was one. So was Chris. Andy, James, Matt… I could go on. But I won’t. Just a list of men for whom I have lain and spread my thighs in the hope that maybe this time, they would love me. Pathetic, isn’t it?
I do worry about my family. How they will react to me not being around any more. But I guess I’m only a pain in the arse to them now anyway. They gave up on me after a year of the whole depression thing. My mum loved it at first. She got all the “poor Sue” sympathy from her friends. How awful to have a daughter who doesn’t go out and get laid every weekend! How awful to have a daughter who isn’t living in a council house with a litter of four by now! My mum will just get on with it like she always has. She’ll probably relish the drama and attention it will bring her. My dad will drown it in whisky that costs less than a tenner a bottle, no doubt. He always liked his whisky.
That squeaking is getting louder. It’s annoying. It sounds like a gate being swung back and forth endlessly by a bored child. It wouldn’t surprise me round here, if someone’s kid was out alone at this time. A mother - high on life and heroin and a new boyfriend to batter her - not even noticing the toddler is missing.
It’s no wonder I’m here really. I look around me and this valley is a black hole for ambition. It sucks it out of you never to be seen again. Ideas and dreams die trying to climb out of here. My eyes move along its sloping sides and I see row upon row of twinkling lights. Monotonous rows of terraced housing that puff the smoke of shitty nappies on coal fires. Bedsits that hold the hopelessly lost. Maybe some of them still dream. Me, I’m tired of it.
I’m tired and I’m worn out and I can’t do it any more. I used to want things. I used to want to be happy. That was back when I remembered what happy felt like. When I used to wake up and think about something that wasn’t going back to sleep, closing the curtains tighter, making sure the doors were locked.
Dad came round once, when the doors were locked. He knocked on the peeling yellow paintwork that marked my one-bed flat. Hammered it, he did. Hammered and hammered and wouldn’t stop. I think I’d been in bed for a week, minus some pee breaks and a tin of beans I’d eaten. For a split second I thought he might be worried about me. “Sadie, if you don’t open this door I’m going to break the fucker down!” he’d shouted. That was quite a lot for my Dad to say, really. And I knew he wasn’t going to stop until I opened it or the police turned up. I hauled myself out of bed, pulled on jeans and a jumper that hadn’t been washed in a month, and plodded to open it. He stood there, leaning against the wall, looking at me through his yellowed, bloodshot, eyes, and said “Got a tenner, love?”
I’m frowning because that squeak is louder again, and I don’t know what it is. It might be a trolley or something, but it’s like it’s getting closer. I’ve perked up a bit to try and listen harder, but the traffic’s getting busier and drowning it out. It’s time for everyone to leave the local late pub now. The one that stays open until 1am after the others close at eleven. I wonder if I’ll manage to land in front of a drink-driver. That would be a bonus. I’m imagining my dad trying to get angry about someone drinking and driving.
Okay. Time to go. I put my hands on the railings either side of me. The railings are bitter cold. It’s weird how I think of stuff like that. Ever since I learned about conductivity in school, I’ve always imagined metal like a sponge, soaking up all the heat in my hands. And this railing sucks it all out really fast so I have to pull my hands up again. And now they’re in front of my mouth, grasped together and I’m breathing into the hole in the middle. I don’t know why I think it will make a difference where I’m going. Cold hands. Silly idea. I’m taking deep breaths getting ready. I can see a Mini Cooper coming along the road. Perfect. I’m getting ready to push through my thighs and go.
“Alright, love?” I turn around and this old woman is standing there. She’s staring at me, and smiling. My heart is beating a million beats a second, and the blood is whooshing through my ears and I can only barely hear her. I look down and she’s dragging one of those little shopping trolleys with tartan covering. It squeaks as she pulls it and sets it upright. I stare back. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know who she is or why she’s here at twenty past one in the morning. I’m stunned. I manage to choke out a meek little “Yeah.”
My mind works overtime. Should I know her?
“You sure?” Fuck. Why does she have to stop? I keep staring for a good few seconds while I try to think. I don’t know what to say. Here I am, sitting here trying to get my shit together to jump, and she wants to make fucking small talk. I look past her and the Mini Cooper is disappearing into the distance. My eyes are back on her face and there are wrinkles and liver spots outlining the smile of crooked, grey teeth. I don’t say anything to her.
“There’s a burger van down there” I follow her nod to where a tiny canopy of red and white hangs from a caravan in the distance, with loads of drunk people gathering around it, desperate for their post-pissup munch. The woman’s reaching for my face. I’m frowning. What’s she doing? “How about a cuppa?” she asks me, and wipes her finger under my eye. I’m surprised to see the puddle of water and mascara on her finger as she pulls it away.
My face has cracked now. I can’t breathe. My mouth is open and I’m screaming silently. All that comes out is a raspy, high-pitched, strangled breath. It hurts so much. I want someone to hold me. I want someone to tell me it will be okay. I want someone to drive a fucking Mini Cooper over Mum and Dad and Chris and Andy and James and Matt and Shane. My arms are wrapped around my torso and I’m sobbing. I can feel the tears evaporating on my cheeks in the wind. The woman raises her eyebrows at me. She’s looking at me like she cares. She nods toward the burger van again and I’m with her. It’s fucking cold on this bridge anyway. And I like Mini Coopers too much to wreck one. I give the woman a nod and move to turn myself around. I’m going to get on that bridge and walk to that van and have a cuppa. And tomorrow I’m going to sort my life out.
I turn around to climb back over the railing. The woman is standing a bit further away than she was. As I look at her, I can see her eyes widening. Her hand moves towards her face, but it looks strange, like she's moving underwater. I feel my own eyes start to mirror hers, and as my cold mind catches up to my body I understand. My foot has slipped off the sharp edge of the bridge. I realise it as her wrinkled hand, covered in paper-thin skin is over her mouth and she’s screaming something. I grab for the railing. My tummy lurches and my hand slips off. It’s too cold. I’m falling. But I don’t want to die. I’m reaching my other hand out to grab at something. Anything. I want my tea! I don’t want to go yet. It’s too early! It’s too late. I’m falling. I don’t know what will happen. I’m scared. I don’t want this. It’s all a big misunderstanding. I’m turning in the air and I have no control. Every split second has turned into an hour and frame by frame, I’m watching myself fall. I’m looking down at the road. I see a bus coming. The ground is coming up faster and faster and time is getting slower and slower. I can smell burgers. I can hear drunken laughter in the distance. I can hear wind in my ears and I can hear a woman screaming, a harrowing, bone-chilling scream.