On The Bridge

by Ada Uzoije

  His words swam through her like a sea of pain.

  “You’re going to be offline, huh?” she screamed, sucking her breath in large gasps of hysteria.

  “You will think of me when you get there? You heartless son of a bitch!”

  She took a razor from her bathroom basket and started slashing her thighs, strip after red strip as she screamed his words back to him in utter despair and unbridled rage. Like a recitation of doom, a prayer of disdain, Krista called out his name repeatedly as she quoted his message to her over and over, one by one laying the lashes deep into her skin and bleeding onto the floor until she was too exhausted to lift her arm one more time.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Brick walls ran along long walkways of cement and formed a complicated architectural maze which corralled hundreds of children along to their respective classes. Arches stood as portals between the different buildings and some of them were decorated with ivy and other crawlers, courtesy of Mother Nature, while below their silent presence young minds moved to be educated. The old school was very stately and strict, but for those who spent their days there it had become a second home. It was more than an institution, it was a gathering place for personalities and problems to be solved, forging friendships and promoting social interaction between all middle class kids.

  The bell had gone and soon after the squirming worms of scuttling bodies rushing for their classes had subsided and dissipated to fractions as the last of them disappeared into their rooms. It left the quad deserted, like an abandoned ghost town of concrete and giant potted plants. It was English period and Doug sat opposite Mick and Thompson, who shared a desk on the other side of the aisle where they could ogle the sublime features of Miss Grace’s body fully from both sides of her walkway.

  “I don’t have time to copy it,” Thompson said about the movie he was trying to get from Doug, “My mum is on my ass about the porn thing she found on my drive and now I am not allowed to use the fucking computer, man.” Thompson had never mastered the art of the whisper properly and attracted the unwanted attention of Christie and her two friends in the desk behind them inadvertently.

  The girls giggled and made disgusted faces at discovering this juicy tidbit of gossip, but Doug simply flipped his middle finger at them and the boys resumed their banter. Mick chewed on a piece of salted dried meat he could not finish by the end of break, but was eagerly sniggering at the conundrum his friends were discussing.

  “I can’t do it. Let Mick do it. It’s not like you will die waiting another week for it,” Doug frowned at his whiny pal.

  “Hell no, I am halfway through Battlefield 1942 and I shall be unavailable for any shenanigans pertaining to your shite until further notice,” Mick mumbled in his best Scottish accent, mocking Thompson’s plight with his unusual vocabulary. It made Doug laugh, but Thompson was not impressed. He punched Mick on the arm and knew it was futile to pursue the matter any further.

  “Settle down now,” their teacher ordered. Miss Grace never had to raise her voice in class like other teachers did. Her body language held its own authority and her husky voice automatically quieted down a class, if only for their desire to listen to it. She could recite the second chapter of Exodus or the Declaration of American Independence if she so wished, and they would listen intently. It never mattered what she said, as long as she said it in her surly deep way. “Icarus,” she announced, “Today we are going to present our reviews, right?”

  The class sighed in misery and she clapped her hands together only once. “Right?”

  “Yes, Miss Grace,” they all replied in their own time.

  “Alright, people, we are going to go alphabetically, and I want you each to come to the front and read out loud your opinion, your review of the ‘Flight of Icarus’ to the class.

  “Maybe Thompson has the X-rated version for us,” Christie smiled and a whole bunch of kids found it hilarious. Thompson merely gave her a dirty look and turned to face Miss Grace.

  One by one they stood up and presented their homework on the book. Miss Grace asked questions about the morals and principles, as well as the literary value of the metaphor and the underlying lessons therein. It was a nightmare for the boys. Who cares why the writer used what similes and all that? What was important to them, was that it was a cool story filled with action, and Miss Grace was the appealing provider.

  Next period was the last of the day and Mick and Thompson had Geography, so they agreed to meet up after school. Doug had an empty period before the day’s end, because Mrs Crowley did not show up today. After all the pupils had gone he stayed behind in Miss Grace’s class and kept her company while she sorted papers for the coming examinations.

  Without thinking much on it, Doug made small talk while he swept the classroom for her.

  “I am so tired,” she sighed and took a sip of Coca Cola from a can. “Insomnia is a torment you should hope never to experience, Doug.”

  “Oh, I know all about it, Miss Grace,” he replied as he started the second row. “I hardly ever sleep anymore, thanks to my daily torture.”

  She put the can down and looked over the top frame of her glasses.

  “Your … ’daily torture’ …” she said, interested by the odd choice of words. “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever had nightmares?” Doug asked without looking up.

  “Yes, when I was a child,” Miss Grace answered. Briefly she looked up at the ceiling, recalling some grisly ones she had endured after her grandmother passed away.

  Doug paused for a while and felt the need to ask anyway, “What about recurring nightmares? Ever had those, Miss?”

  “No,” she replied, thankful that she did not have to relive any of them even once.

  He nodded in acknowledgement, clearly in deep thought with only the sound of birds singing outside and the hissing sound of the broom’s brush on the floor.

  Then he suddenly asked, “What about hallucinations?” His voice came quick and mildly urgent. The question perplexed Miss Grace, waking a worry in her which prompted her to probe deeper, because children Doug’s age normally would not know about hallucinations and such. There was much sincerity in his voice. Grace shifted in her seat, careful to approach the subject with sensitivity and not run the risk of him closing up should she ask the wrong way. She cleared her voice.

  “Doug, are you having hallucinations?” his teacher asked, folding her hands on the table before her, hoping her question sounded “cool” enough not to raise suspicion that she was worried.

  “No,” he replied, still not making eye contact, “but I know someone who does.”

  He could not admit it to her, because she was an authority figure and therefore would perhaps tell other adults to help. That was something Doug did not welcome.

  “Well, if I knew someone who suffered from hallucinations I would certainly advise that person to go and see a doctor immediately, you know?” she said nonchalantly, knowing perfectly well the “someone I know” scenario usually served as a shield for shame. “It’s not healthy to hallucinate. It is usually the first sign that you are losing it, you know? I have had many close calls myself when I was too stressed.”

  “What do you mean by ‘losing it’, Miss? Doug asked, his intrigue woken by her choice of words.

  “Because,” his teacher replied, “you can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy, real or unreal. It is quite frightening, I think, not being able to discern between the two.”

  And then he came to the most important question which had haunted him. “Is there a cure for that?” he asked and hoped she would know the answer readily to sate his curiosity.

  Miss Grace looked out the window and sighed again, while her pupil waited with bated breath on her wisdom, completely forgetting to sweep.

  “It can be controlled,” she answered and looked at him with her cat-like eyes, “but as far as I know there is no cure for it. ‘Cure’ would imply that the illness causing the hallucination had vanished. B
ut ‘control’ means it would simply stop affecting one’s life,” said Miss Grace, once again rolling her words in that appealing way which always sent him into a fantasy. Their eyes were locked and Doug felt a jolt going through him again as it always did when she spoke directly to him.

  His sexy English teacher always made him forget about his nightmarish ordeals and put his demons to sleep. In his eyes, she was indeed a goddess of pleasure, a beacon of happiness, representing all the good things he craved. The smitten boy could not help but entertain a smile which stretched over his face involuntarily, even while they were discussing such a serious topic that been directly affecting him, afflicting him with its dangers. The thought took his smile from him.

  “How sure are you that it cannot be cured, then, Miss Grace?” Doug asked politely, not particularly partial to the idea of being doomed to being a mental patient for the rest of his life.

  She looked out the window again with some measure of annoyance. She did not like having her opinion challenged like this.

  “I’m not sure, Doug, being a humble English teacher and not exactly an authority on anything psychological. You should ask Mr Green, your biology teacher instead,” she said abruptly and folded her arms with another deep sigh.

  “I will,” Doug lied. He did not want to start raising suspicions about his mental state, nor did he want to antagonize the woman of his dreams either.

  Miss Grace picked up on his sudden retreat and composed herself. After all he was only a pupil, searching for answers he probably could not get elsewhere.

  “Anything else?” his teacher asked with a friendly smile, recharging his mood slightly.

  He had done sweeping her class and the bell was soon to go for the end of school day.

  “No, thanks, Miss Grace,” he forced a smile.

  Doug stood ready to leave the class. Then he thought to ask another question which was bothering him immensely and he turned to look at his English teacher one more time. It was a look of contemplation, but it was a question which unsettled her.

  “Miss Grace?” he asked and she raised an eyebrow to acknowledge him, “Why do people commit suicide?”

  “What?” the teacher asked quickly. She was not expecting that question. Deepening with concern, her brow wrinkled above her widening eyes and she knew that this was not just a fanciful way to engage her. This was real. Doug saw her expression changing and he immediately felt uneasy about revealing his thoughts, hoping she would not think that he was “losing it.”

  Miss Grace took her time to formulate an answer.

  “I see you are still traumatised by that tragic incident on the bridge?” she asked, playing it calmly. Doug was relieved that he had that event to support his question.

  “Yes, Miss! It frightens me that a bright and successful man like that would kill himself,” he replied with open honesty. His face twisted in sorrow and a twinge of innocent panic. “Is it that terrible being a grown-up? Is it that bad to deal with life as an adult, becoming one?” he asked with a strongly concerned expression on his face, almost as if he was calling out for help.

  She had to counter this promptly.

  “No!” she exclaimed with a desperate smile. “Look! I am happy, right? Your parents are happy,” she said, hoping that things at home were cordial. “I mean, how many grown-ups do you know who have killed themselves, hey?” she said, adding a cheerful tone to her argument.

  He gave it some thought.

  “None, apart from that man,” Doug reported and his teacher nodded instantly in a reassuring way. In his heart he was relieved that his parents would not suddenly disappear from this earth in such a way.

  “Let it go, Doug,” she chirped and winked at him. “These heavy worries in your head are just too much for a bright young man like you,” she said, using the compliment to make him feel better. “Do what other kids like you are doing,” his teacher begged finally.

  “Like what?” Doug asked with a twinkling smile, imagining kissing his sexy English teacher again. After all, that what kids like him were doing. Miss Grace surely was a brainy teacher.

  He stared at the stunning smiling woman and wondered if she had any idea what he was thinking.

  “Hello Doug,” his head was suddenly assaulted by the sound of that deep, muscular voice, approaching him.

  “Vince,” he thought. And it was indeed the insufferable Vince, Miss Grace’s fiancée. “Fuck” Doug cussed in his head, but he managed to keep his cool and not voice his disgust.

  “Hi,” he replied, meekly waving his right hand at the asshole with the muscles. Vince was nicer to him today and Doug didn’t know why. Maybe today was his payday or he had something up his sleeve, nevertheless, it was an opportune time to leave.

  To escape the torture of watching the couple kissing, Doug quickly said goodbye to Miss Grace with a friendly nod and got the hell out of there before the bell went. Behind his back he could feel them kissing. It was always a short welcome kiss between the two of them, but for Doug it always lasted way too long.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Since Doug overslept on Wednesday morning, he had not spoken to Suicide Queen before school, and was disheartened to find her absent once more when he went online this night, but he spoke to one of the other users he had met a few days before. At about 11 p.m. he said goodbye and logged off from his computer after chatting about his favourite band with a suicide survivor from India. He missed The Suicide Queen, but he felt satisfied for the time on the site tonight and cheerfully prepared for bed without any particularly unsettling thoughts. He fed his fish and turned off the lights, as per usual.

  Doug couldn’t help but wonder why his lady friend with the good advice was not online and he hoped nothing bad had happened to her, although he knew by her personality that she could handle anything thrown her way and kick its ass in the process. He smiled and stretched out on his back, looking at the blue ceiling and before he knew it, he was once again back on the bridge.

  This time something was different. This time everything was clearer, the colours brighter, and it was not the only change to the dream. As before, Doug was talking to his mother, but this time, instead of driving up in his car, the Ferrari man was already standing on the bridge - only Doug noticed he wasn’t exactly standing on the bridge, but instead floated about a foot above it. He seemed taller too, stretched a bit too long, and his suit was made of some shimmering material which changed colours as the wind blew against it, not grey as it had looked the day of the accident. Worst of all in this new imagery, his tie was blood red this time and it was dripping on the surface of the bridge.

  Then his father noticed the man, which he hadn’t done in the real incident. He started walking toward the floating man, clearly in a hot temper. He was shaking his finger at the man, yelling, “You’re the son of a bitch that spoiled my day, frightened my son, and sprayed my car with your filthy blood and body parts! Well, I’m going to give you a piece of my mind right now!”

  At that the man’s smile disappeared, a scowl falling deep into his brow. Quick as a flash, he pulled a gun out of his pocket and shot Doug’s father in the forehead. Not a moment later, he swung round to face Doug down the barrel, his demonic face pitiless and eager, and just as he squeezed the trigger Doug woke up. He was hyperventilating, trembling and sweating, his pyjamas soaking wet and clinging to his skin.

  For a while he sat on the edge of his bed, attempting to even out his breathing and calm down. He checked his bedside clock. It was 3:05 a.m. Outside, the weather sang in accordance with his dreadful state and rapped at his windows with force. He drew his curtains, catching a glimpse of the gathering lightning far off before closing the fabric over the middle.

  The thunder roared softly now.

  He ripped off his pyjamas and threw them on the floor. He grabbed a fresh pair from his dresser drawer, and snuck quietly into the bathroom, flicking on the light. After closing the door behind him, Doug splashed some cold water on his face and dabbed it dry with a cl
ean towel before dressing himself in his clean pyjamas. All this time he refused to look in the mirror for fear that he might see something he wouldn’t like. Perhaps it was the ominous weather that influenced him, or the odd turn of events in his familiar dream somehow announcing that something had changed.

  His eyes felt thick and he knew he would sleep like a baby as soon as his head hit the pillow. When he opened the door to his room, he screamed.

  There sat the dead man cross-legged on his bed, staring angrily at him. He looked Doug straight in the eye, leering at him before slowly drifting from the bed and setting his bare feet down to charge at the young boy. His form prepared for attack and as he launched toward him, Doug swiftly slammed the bathroom door shut, careened over to the bathroom cabinet and violently grabbed at the bottle containing his antipsychotics.

  His chest hissed under the threat of the thing outside his door and he cried like a little child as he popped the lid and poured the entire contents into his mouth, swallowing the pills hastily with water straight from the tap, choking on the salvation he sought from them. It was the only thing he could think of to stop him from having such hallucinations. Yes, he had convinced himself that this was what it was. It had to be. It was just his mind playing tricks, hell, it was the thunder outside for all he knew. But this was not a ghost. There was no such thing.

  Such things were fabrications of broken minds who could not deal with the fact that they were prone to common hallucinations. Doug felt weak, unable to stand from the tremors in his legs, but he knew he had to leave the bathroom sometime.

  How would he explain this to his parents if they found him in the bathroom, shivering like a rabbit at the end of a gun? No manner of fear could barricade him in and cause him to have to endure his father’s sissy speech. He had to brave whatever toiled him. The boy took a deep breath and stopped crying, although his level of terror had not diminished an ounce. After finding his legs able again, he stared at the waiting door and tried very hard to ignore the rolling heavens outside as he approached his bedroom.