The Bridge
Page 2
Chapter 2
Christina
She struggled zipping up her jacket, her messed up hair kept getting caught up in the zipper’s way while she ran through Highland park soaking her oversized jeans in water. They were torn in countless spots, barely covering the bruises from her father. He was always in some fit of manic rage, he would slam doors, knock down furniture and throw her mother’s china porcelain at the wall, watching it burst into a thousand shards as his devious smile smudged across his face when he would see the look of horror on hers. The antique porcelain held sentimental value to her, it was all that her mother left behind. It was not enough. She had passed away a few months ago, having gone into a coma after having been in a severe car accident on Austin street, right in front of their door. Christina was in school when her father burst through the classroom door and grabbed her hand, telling her to get up and follow him. Her father was always busy and she rarely saw him, he worked the entire week as a plumber, and as an abusive husband and father on the weekends. So it was a surprise when he showed up at school. He pushed her into the passenger seat of their old and beaten up pickup truck, filled with different tools and pipes, and climbed into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him. He turned on the ignition and the truck roared to life.
“Your mother was in an accident", he seemed to wait for a response, but then continued when he saw the frightened look in his daughter’s eyes “A man lost control of his brakes on Austin, and tried driftin' to the side, but your mom was just pulling out of the driveway. The bastard was unhurt, but your mother is in a coma. I came as soon as I could, you know how it is with the union. I’ve been calling the hospital every couple minutes asking about her, but they keep repeatin’ “her condition is still the same, she is still unconscious.” That lousy bunch ought to be tryin' harder, who would take care of you if something were to happen to her?” He seemed to drift into his thoughts, thinking out loud, not realizing, or to be precise, not caring, how much he was hurting his daughter. Her heart felt like it was being ripped out of her chest, and the only thing she could do was stare off into the distance, praying her mother would come out of her coma.
But her mother never made it. The funeral took place on a Thursday, and her father didn’t attend it. He was drinking back at home while she cried. And instead of the loving arms of a father being put around her while she dealt with her grief, distant relatives were comforting her. The only thing she could recall of that day was the color of her mother’s face, as she laid there, resting in her open casket. For the first time in a very long time, she finally seemed to be at peace. The accident didn’t manage to disfigure her, so she was able to appreciate her mother one final time. People always said that she had her mother’s brown hair and hazel eyes. This irritated her father, as he had begun to despise everyone around him, especially his wife, but deep down, she felt a bolt of pride anytime somebody would remark the fact. Her mother’s eyes were open but cloudy and distant, had anyone not thought to close them? She gazed down to her lips, red and beautiful, like a rose in a summer afternoon. She kissed her finger then pressed it on her mothers lips. “How could you leave me? Alone. With him. Couldn’t you have stayed just a couple more years? Until I finished high school and left the house?” she wouldn’t dare say those thoughts out loud. Her father taught her that lesson a long time ago, his belt in one hand, and daring her to open her mouth while he sucked on a toothpick, his sleeves rolled up, exposing his tattoos. She came to know every detail of his tattoos, as he usually rested one arm on the table while the other hand held the belt. It was a quote: “Oh, I am fortune's fool!” besides a pair of flaming dice. That night she could only see the word “fool”, but she grew to know every curve and bend of his tattoo from the nights he stayed in his undershirt.
She kept running through the park, her makeup leaking down the sides of her face in thick black lines, it was goth makeup, as she was always trying to fit into the different groups in high school, this time trying the punk style for a change. She was pulled her earbuds out and put them in her ears, drowning out all the noise from the streets. hello darkness my old friend resonated in her ears, one of her favorite songs that, she felt, perfectly expressed her feelings. I’ve come to talk to you again- she began to pick up her pace, she was jogging past a Starbucks, shooting a quick glance at the people sitting down, laughing, enjoying their cup of coffee in the warm room, when parts of the song that moved her started coming up -and the vision that was planted in my brain... still remains...within the sound of silence...- she was picking up her pace, murmuring the words as she heard them. She did have a vision. It was the vision of a future where she didn’t exist, sobs began to mix with short bursts of laughter, changing between one and another as flashes of memories zipped past her mind: her mother sitting by the pool, with her dark shades covering her hazel eyes, talking with her friends and smiling towards her every couple seconds. Then to the memory of the day she fell, being pushed by a larger girl called Anabella, who was known to have particular sentiments of dislike towards Christina, who gave her the nickname raggedy Chrissy. The push made her slip on the wet stairs in mid-winter, making her land with a sickening -crack- that was followed by the worst pain she had ever felt. Pain shot up her arm like bolts of lightening, making her lose her breathe while stars clouded her vision. She was in a daze lying down in the school’s infirmary, soundless tears falling onto her lap, when her mother rushed into the room wearing her blue button-through dress, the sound of her high heels following her. She was always dressed impeccably, always concerned with every detail of her attire, that was just the type of woman she was. But it wasn’t only her outside that seemed to attract the looks of everyone around her, it was also her pure heart, always offering her jacket to a homeless person if she didn’t have any spare change to offer. She was the complete opposite of our father, but yet she also had her set of problems. She was bipolar, and her mood swings were difficult to live with. Her psychologist always tells her to stop stressing herself, but Christina’s dad wasn’t really helping her situation: his constant swearing and fits always kept her nerves on edge. Christina was given the nickname Candy the day she broke her arm, it was what the nurses started calling her in the emergency room, while offering her a lollipop “what a sweet and well mannered girl, it’s a shame I cant say the same about her parents” she pretended not to hear what they said as she kept her eyes peeled on the TV unit watching a rerun of The Wizards of Waverly Place, but she knew what people thought of her parents.
-and in the naked light I saw... ten thousand people maybe more- The song’s intensity started picking up, just as she started losing her breathe and her chest started hurting, she was seeing more than ten thousand people, the sidewalks were packed with people trying to squeeze in some last minute shopping before the holidays. She was grateful she had the past week off of school, the level of bullying was growing unbearable. She wouldn’t dare report anyone to the principal’s office for fear of making things worse, and once, she tried reporting a missing notebook from her bag. That was a horrible mistake. The teacher promised to follow up on the theft, which never happened, and one kid managed to eavesdrop on the conversation, reporting it to one of the bully’s who had taken it. That resulted with her going home with a black eye. -people talking without speaking... people hearing without listening... people writing songs...- She was now near the Brooklyn war memorial, and finally collapsed near the statue of the woman holding her son’s hand, opposite to the statue of the male warrior. The woman with her child symbolized family, while the man symbolized victory, they were both in front of a large wall of granite on which was inscribed “This memorial is dedicated to the heroic Men and Women...” she had read it a thousand times and knew it by heart. This was her favorite spot to relax. She could calmly watch the crowd of people idle by out the corner of her eye while she focused on the clouds moving above her head. She imagined herself going back in time. New York didn’t change much in the past couple hundred
years, it was always a bustling city full of movement and busy people. According to the books she read, the personality of the typical New Yorker didn’t change much over the years either, they were always wary of strangers, cold and distant when you first approach them. But once they realized you meant no harm, they opened up to reveal of the most genuine hearted types of people you can find.
“Miss, could you spare a bit of change for a man in need?” She gasped, startled and the old man who approached her from behind. She didn’t hear his footsteps with her earbuds in her ears, “yes of course...” she said as she fumbled through her pockets, taking out pieces of change and shriveled up bills, dumping them all into the olds man scarred hands. I have no need for money anymore, so I might as well give it away, she thought to herself. “What a kind young woman, you seem to be upset, can I repay you by helping you in any way?” he said as he took out a couple pipe cleaners from his old jacket and sat down next to me, he stared intensively at the pipes as he worked them with his hands, bending them together. His gray oily hair moved gently in the wind, and his torn jeans reminded them of herself. The difference was, they probably weren’t hiding bruises underneath. A radiant smile grew on his face as he opened his closed giving a magicians “Tadaa!” in the process, revealing a small rabbit made of different colors of pipe cleaners. She stood up quickly, profusely thanking the old man, and made her way to the bridge, not wanting the man to see her cry.
Her heart rate started accelerating as she made her way onto the bridge, the higher she climbed, the stronger the winds blew, which did not help her fear of heights. She shot quick and nervous glances over the dirty railing, peering into the blue waters of the East River, it looked frighteningly far down from this high up, which gave her goosebumps and made her sweat freeze. She kept walking, right on the white line separating pedestrians from cyclists, looking dead ahead at the majestic arches of the bridge. The steel wires that were cast from the arch structure were like a spider casting her silk threads to hold her web together. It was a fascinating feat of architecture.
She was now exactly were she wanted to be: right in the middle of the bridge, having passed underneath the arch a few minutes ago. She had been preparing for this day since her mothers funeral. She raised her arm up in the air, pointing towards Queens, towards her father’s apartment. “Don’t you dare cry at my funeral. I’ve been dead since the day my mother died. My body is just finally catching up with my soul.” She wiped the few remaining tears from her face, tore out her earbuds and threw them over the railing, along with her mp3 player, a gift from her mother a couple years back. She was tired of trying, tired of coping, tired of breathing. She was done with everything and just wanted to join her mother, just wanting to spend an eternity in her warm arms. She once read that suicide is the only thing you can control in your life, and that’s why it’s considered a sin. Because you’re beating god at his own game. Thats not what she wanted, she just wanted peace.
She grabbed the railing with both her arms. Her whole body was shaking and her heart was beating in her throat.
She closed her eyes and raised herself.
She would not see her 15th birthday.
Goodbye, cruel world.