Stone Cold

The bridge was crowded. Not ideal, obviously. Didn’t want some do-gooder trying to stop me. The old bridge was a tourist attraction, hence the need to be here - for its symbolism. The cold grey statue that stood sentinel at the start of the curve, guarding this portal to the other side of the city, stared indifferently. Contemplating hurling yourself off? Knock yourself out. Thinking of machine-gunning down the entire crowd? Be my guest. Come to take a selfie? Cheesy, but okay I guess. I started to wonder how that would feel, to be made of stone, to not be able to scratch your nose when a stray feather blew past, or wipe your forehead when a pigeon shat from on high. How lonely it would be, and how traumatic at the same time. Watching lovers breaking up or worse, lovers cuddling and whispering, and the sadness of seeing these people thinking they were new and that the setting would protect them from all the sadnesses and misadventures of romance and the cruelty of loving.

I stuffed my hand in my pocket, only to realise there was no pocket. Who makes coats without pockets? Madness. I remembered it was in the small bag that dangled from my shoulder, my accomplice. A woman with a push chair, I think that’s what you call them, barged past and I had a sudden flicker of her future, the child pushing her - old, dribbling, almost bald - round a retirement home garden. So this is how it is, and will be forever. The circle of fucking life. I groped around inside the bag, and there it was, small as a tooth. I mustn’t look at it. That would kill me. I jostled my way to the centre of the bridge. There were people selling candy, and groups with selfie sticks and a man who looked nervous, twitchy almost and I wanted to warn his girlfriend. She was oblivious, breathing in the day like any other day, not knowing what was about to happen. I recognised the signs all too well. The fakery in his stance, the fingers trembling, the cold way he looked at her for just a second, just a moment that could have been just a flicker of light. It was a seed, that look, and I knew it. Nooooo, I wanted to shout, but I couldn’t get to them in time. I saw the girl, the horror on her face, but couldn’t see the narrative unfolding. When I did manage to elbow my way through, people were grinning and their faces were grotesque, watching this ritual unfold. He was still there, down on one knee, and they stood frozen like a tableau. Man Awaiting Knighthood From Terrified Queen, it might have been called. And then they melted. The girl squealed, the crowd aahed, the couple embraced. God dammit, how stupid are people?

I held the ring in my hand and it hurt like a memory. Cold, hard, engraved. A band of gold, a circle of life. A circle of death. The joy was still lingering, and me, even cynical me, waited for it to disperse, for the droplets that hung in the air to dissolve and the air to become indifferent again, like the statue’s gaze. Then I walked to the stone edge of the bridge, leant out - gazed out at the citadel, the carved facades so beautiful. So sinister. This cold hard chiselled beauty created with the sweat and lives of the miserable. I felt I shouldn’t just throw the ring away without some ceremony. Perhaps I should wear it one last time and jump in? No, I wasn’t ready for that. But it had to go. I tried to remember some prayers, or even a nursery rhyme. I held the tiny metallic band between my forefinger and thumb. This ring has magic powers, he had told me, when we were silly and young and the bruises had not yet even thought of emerging. Before I realised the dark magic in his soul, and his absolute need of control. That evening, on this bridge, when he got down on one knee, I thought my life would change forever. And it did. Fear became as habitual as a garment, extra layers of it thrown on every time I entered the house. But he is dead now, and can’t hurt me or anyone any longer. Shame about that accident, he was still so young. But even that isn’t enough to erase him. This ring, it has to drown, it has to gasp for air and sink to the bottom, lie in the mud as I have done all these years. Once this is done I will be, what? Free? No, never free.

Then it all happens so fast. I raise my arm dramatically to fling away the memories, but it freezes in mid-air. Am I having a stroke? My rational brain then kicks in. No, someone has stayed my hand. But it is not that either. My eyes grow foggy. And now I am not standing at the edge any longer. I am at the start of the bridge. And I am stiff, and cold. That ring has magic powers, he said, in the days before I even thought about killing him. A feather blows past my nose - bright, turquoise and gold - and I go to scratch but I can’t. My hands are bound by my sides. I cannot turn my head, or move. I am stone. He made me stone, he turned me to flint, he moulded me into someone who cannot feel because feeling was too painful. A girl points to me. Mummy, I think that statue just blinked! Haha, no darling, silly. Just a flicker of the light…

As I stare at the only view I will ever have, I see a man walking away. He is grey like the morning, and he turns briefly. His eyes are cold, his heart is stiff. But he walks free to breathe another day.