Quiet Finality

Finality. The search for solitude and quiet drives me to the bridge. The water looks choppy and angry. At me? Do I disappoint even the water? Of course, I do. I’m a constant disappointment. 

I hesitate now. Should I dive in? Fall feet first? What will lead to the least painful death? 

Perhaps I should have just taken pills, but I didn’t want my husband to have to find me. Or worse, one of the kids. Head first, I decide, my neck will hopefully snap and it will be over soon.  

I’ve just decided when I hear a scuffle of sound to my left. 

The woman walking toward me looks like me. 

We are not the same age, the same build, or the same ethnicity. She is wearing a gown and holding pretty shoes. Her earrings wink at me salaciously.

And yet, she looks like me because her soul has shrunken into itself. We have matching sadness. A friend, my traitorous heart identifies, but my mind corrects her: hush, there is no one. We want to be alone.

“Hello,” I say, because there is my mind and then there are the rituals I am trained to perform - the two sometimes forget about one another. She jumps, grabbing for the railing and my heart trips for her. She is here to kill herself like I am, I am sure, and yet I have almost been her undoing. How terribly funny and sad. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” I say.

“Oh! Oh. I didn’t know you were here,” she chuckles in spite of the abstract art of makeup on her face. Her rituals kicked in, too, I see. 

“It’s alright. I don’t mind some company for my last moments. Or, if you want, I can stay here for your last ones,” I offer. We are one now, I am morose, but nobody said I couldn’t be morose with some damn manners.  She hesitates. I can see it in her lip-chewing and glance over the city. 

“You won’t try to stop me?” she asks. 

“No, not as long as you don’t try to stop me either.” 

“I won’t,” she says solemnly. 

We both look into the black river below us for a moment. 

“Do you want to go first?”

“Sure,” I say and stand up. I take a deep breath and my muscles tense as I prepare for the jump-

“Any last words?” She interrupts. Irritating, but I also feel compelled to respond.

“Why? What's the point?”

She shrugs. “I'll take your secrets to my watery grave.” I smile and she laughs, but then we both remember why we are here and our faces fall. In unison. She is like me.

“That’s true,” I consider. “Well, I…I  did a lot of things."

"Haven't we all?"

"I wrecked our car. I cheated on my husband. I spent too much time on my phone and never paid attention to my kids. Last week, I lost my job. And today I did the worst thing I have ever done.” I pause here because this bit is hard. She is a stranger, but perhaps I need the judgment to push me, rhetorically, off this ledge. “I hit my daughter,” I finally reveal. 

The woman’s mouth opens in a gasp and her question is an exhale: “What did she do?” Her judgment washes over me and it feels so comforting. So accurate. So expected.

“Nothing,” I shake my head in wonder. “I told her not to pull down the plates and she looked right into my eyes and did it anyway. And I just reared back and slapped her.” 

“Why did you do that?” she asks and my mouth moves before my attitude. I don’t want to answer this question! Or maybe I do because my words are a truth I thought I’d never share. 

“It’s what my mother used to do to me. I always swore I would never do that to my own child. She’s only five. She didn’t deserve that. She deserves better than me.”

“Feel better? Now that you’ve confessed?” I think about this for a moment. 

“No,” I whisper, but the wind is still and it's loud enough to hear. When she says nothing, I turn again to the demise of my choice. I let go of the railing and bend my legs, but then those damn manners pull me back. The conversation doesn’t feel quite complete. I turn to my new comrade in death, “And you? Anything you want to tell me before I jump?”

“I killed my son.” I don't know what I was expecting. Something similar to my story, I suppose. But this?

“What did he do?” I ask and I try to keep my voice measured. Surely, she must have had her reasons. 

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I just couldn’t take it anymore. He was always hard, even as a baby. He drove my husband away - I never would have cheated on him like you cheated on yours, and he knew it! I stayed with my son even after the love of my life left me and what did I get for it? He would hit me and screech at me when all I tried to do was love him. He never learned to speak and couldn’t feed himself. He was a burden I could no longer bear.” 

“Do you feel better?” I asked, and I know she’d think I meant about the confession, but I want to know if she actually feels any better without the ‘burden’ of her child.

“No, not really,” she sighs.  

“Well, nice knowing you,” I’m done with this conversation. I no longer want to associate with her.

“Yeah, thanks for hearing me out,” she has the nerve to cry now.

“You, too,” I say, but my lips are tight. 

“Good luck, hope it’s not too painful,” there’s a smile on her face I can only assume she doesn’t mean.

“Same,” I say. I’m resorting to one-word answers here. I hope she gets the message and starts to leave me alone. Alone. That was what I wanted in the first place. 

We both look at the water and I realize she’s waiting for me to jump like I said I would. I swallow, suddenly nervous.

"Do you need me to push you or something?” she asks.

I look at her again. The moon is shining on her and I notice details I'd missed in my first cursory glance as she neared me.

She is wearing her finest clothes, where mine are torn and stained.

She killed her own child, and I am dying to protect mine from myself. This woman is not like me and I am not like her. 

“Let’s do it together,” I say and hold out my hand. She smiles. She looks so kind. So warm. I don’t understand the duality of people sometimes. She reaches for my hand and I can feel the rings on her fingers pinching the skin of mine.

“Together,” she confirms. “I’m glad I’m not alone,” she whispers. 

Alone. I wanted to be alone. And why won’t she be quiet? 

Why does she get to kill herself to escape when I must kill myself for my memory to survive? 

My hand grabs her wrist and it’s all so slow, but there’s not a moment to stop myself. My mind is not connecting with my body. I thrust my arm away from myself and fling it toward the water below. Her body teeters and her fingers close on my limp hand, but her weight is greater than my grip. My hand reaches for the railing and when I find it, I see the darkness in her eyes. I don't want that. I'm not ready. I yank my body away from hers. 

Her eyes lock on mine as she falls. She screams, but it is blessedly short. I am alone and it is quiet. Finally.