The Bridge

Balancing precariously on the stone wall that ran along the side of the old bridge, he felt the hot, tepid air urging him to jump. Two hundred feet below, out of sight in the darkness, he could hear the river calling him, and imagined the jagged rocks in the river bed peering upwards, trying to pierce the darkness above their heads.

Life had been cruel to him all along — but in a sort of quiet, almost gentle way. There had been no tragedies to make people feel sorry for him, no heart-breaking loss whose memory he could use to cry himself to sleep during the lonely nights. It had just been a long, monotonous succession of grey days followed by grey nights, with not a star to lighten the horizon.

He was tired. Not angry, not despaired, not feeling sorry for himself — just tired. Tired of having to watch everyone make a mess of things, and then quietly try and pick up the pieces and glue them together. Tired of fighting day and night to keep his family safe (in every sense of that multifaceted word), and then being considered the cause of all that had gone wrong. Tired of spending all his strength and resources to keep them all together, and then feeling the awful weight of being alone amongst strange, familiar people. Tired of all that he endured — yet not in a selfish, self-pitying way.

He imagined himself telling Rudyard Kipling: “I followed your advice and became a man — but you didn’t warn me it would be so desperately lonely here!” And then he was answering himself, in that silly habit of his: “It would be worse if I were popular!” It wasn’t really the loneliness that weighed him down. It wasn’t the lack of recognition. To be honest, he didn’t really know what it was. But he knew he just couldn’t bear the prospect of another day of fighting and struggling for what he believed was right. And he knew he couldn’t live without fighting! Others could (it seemed everyone could!), but not him. The only way for him to live was as he had always tried to live: doing what had to be done, without ever giving up.

Yes, that was the only way he could live. “And that is certainly not living, mate!”, he was telling himself. “That is more like killing yourself slowly, day by day!” He was almost whispering now: “So come on, get it over with! A little step forward, and your troubles are over!”

Even as he struggled with his thoughts, he knew that his decision was already taken. It had been, all along — ever since he left them all arguing among themselves three hours earlier, and stormed out of the house. And as that realization slowly took shape in his mind, it brought with it another certainty: he had the courage to put that decision into action. There was really no fear, no doubts. It would be like all the other battles he had fought: you don’t stop to think whether you can do it or not, you just do what has to be done!

He felt the weight of a thousand lives fall off his shoulders, and strike the rocks below, being swiftly carried away by the raging current. He heard the wind singing a plaintive eulogy as the darkness greedily buried his woes. With a last, strange look at the darkness below, he jumped.

The stone wall was lower than he expected, and his feet met the road with a thump. The Moon reappeared from behind the cloud where it had been hiding, and the trees silently waved their bows, congratulating him. He bowed to his silent spectators, feeling somewhat foolish for doing so. Then he resolutely made his way homeward.

Tired, and sad. But in a kind of happy, proud way. He heard himself say, out loud this time: “I live to fight another day!” And immediately his heart answered: “Don’t be melodramatic, stupid! Just get on with it!”

It brought him no elation, not even a little glimmer of joy. But he knew he had just won his greatest victory ever, and that even though there were still many battles ahead, the war had been won.