take for the wound on my hand to bleed out? Bright blood beads and trickles in a slow rhythm, a stark red against my skin that pulses with each heavy beat of my heart.
My palm, slick with blood, leaves a distinct print on the silk of my dress—a rebellious scarlet against the pale rose—as I climb over the railing.
Beneath me, Memory’s River swirls in the night’s obscurity, its murky waters hidden yet audibly churning in the blackness. The river and I, we’re old acquaintances, its rapid currents whispering familiarly, mingling with the pulsating rhythm in my chest to create a strangely soothing symphony.
Memory’s River—a name dripping with irony for a waterway that has snatched away over twenty-one souls, transforming them into mere recollections in our town. This was our infamous suicide point, a place where people disintegrate into memories, obscured by ripples and forgotten by the stream.
I adjust my position on the bridge’s ledge, the rusty metal gnawing at the delicate skin of my feet.
Could I get Tetanus? My head dismisses the concern almost as quickly as it surfaces. The notion is laughably trivial when I’m teetering on the precipice of oblivion.
Taking a steadying breath, I shift forward, my hand now saturated with a fresh wave of blood. Numbness has stolen any semblance of pain, likely a product of severed nerves.
Warm trails of tears mark my cheeks, a silent testament to the despair gripping my heart, as I close my eyes tightly, willing my body to release its grip.
A whisper escapes, “I’m sorry, Dad,” as my fingers loosen their hold. The expected fall doesn’t come; instead, a viselike grip seizes my wrist, halting my descent.
“No, not tonight, sweetheart—not tonight.”
