Fire at their Backs

Content Warning: suicidal ideation and prevention.

Most of them answer the call at night. The call of the vortex.

So night is when I keep watch. I walk and watch beneath the amber lights. Most of them leap looking out to sea rather than up the river. So I watch most closely on the sea side. Most of them leap from the central third of the bridge’s length. So I pace there thrice for every time I pace the shore thirds at either end.

I have always loved the suicide. I have determined to save them. When I can.

It has been seven years since I traded night for day in which to dream in and day for night in which to watch. It has been seven years since I heard the call, since I had crept up to the railing under the brightness of an almost full moon, and since I first looked down into the blue-shimmer waves parted by that dark mouth open and waiting.

That night, I had answered the call from my own throat. I had looked down into that mouth. I had almost leapt.

It was in that moment that I loved myself.

I walk with the ocean on my left and the river on my right. I turn. I walk with the ocean on my right and the river on my left. I turn. Cars drive by with increasing infrequency. No one bothers me. I am alone. Except for the king in my pocket. The suicide king.

The ocean on my left. Turn. The ocean on my right. Turn.

I have always loved the suicide king. Since first I heard his name. Since that evening sitting at my grandmother’s table playing card games I always lost. It was a table of carved wood under glass under the table cloth. I only saw it once, it being too precious to be looked at. I would sit after dinner at my grandmother’s table, playing cards. I remember when she showed me one card, a king, a king of hearts, a sword raised up behind his head. The suicide king. She told me that was his name. I was seven then. I didn’t understand the sudden love that rushed in overwhelming waves through my own heart. I still don’t understand.

I place a hand to the pocket over my heart. The king is still there.

The river on my right. Turn. The river on my left. Turn.

It is a suicide bridge. It is a beautiful place. To walk. To die. A promise of poetry in the intolerable greyness. How quickly the light can shift.

I almost leapt at that time. Seven years past. I felt in that moment that a world in which suicide exists is a world in which hope exists. That, at the very least, it may be better to be dead. Is it wrong? I feel it must be wrong to think like that. I want to save them, if I can.

The ocean on my left. Turn. The ocean on my right. Turn.

A subtle shift in the air. The call grows insistent. A figure grows at the edge of my vision, still distant. I cross to the river side. I walk, as casually as I can. I don’t want to scare them over the edge.

I cannot tell yet whether I can save them. Whether I can talk them back. Whether I can call forth help in time. Whether I can reach them. Can they be saved or is the fire at their backs? Does the vortex gape wider? Do the waves swell up to reach them?

Slow, steady, pretending not to notice them. Walk, watch, walk.

I was eleven then, when I saw them leap from a burning tower. I remember them. I cannot forget. Fire at their backs and before them the vortex.

Who can tell what choice they’d make?

Closer, closer. Soon I’ll see whether the glow about them is the moon or something else.

I always try, even when to hold them is impossible. Even when the flames threaten to consume them. I cannot fight the fire at their backs. I have never done it once. How many times have I whispered, “I’m sorry. I love you,” as the mouth of the vortex closed around them? How many times have I seen the flames doused?

Closer, closer. A figure stooped and stout. A glow but of what?

The figure stops, waiting for me to pass. They look up to where the river flows down from the mountains in the distance.

I am close. Almost there. I am there. I am close enough. I can see it. I can see what glows.

A silver pigeon.

Immaterial, bright, attached. Not a fire, but a ghost, clinging to a memory of kindness.

Breathing again, I slow my pace. With careful steps, I approach. I stop beside them. I place my hands on the railing. I look out. I ask:

“Who else would feed them? Who’d feed the pigeons?”

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This story is a part of the TunnelBridge cycle of stories.
Also see TunnelBridge