The Middle Of Somewhere

Somewhere there’s a bridge. It stands tall, outside a city, over a highway. Its cement is cracked and graffitied. It's beautiful, or at least that’s what they’re thinking as they stand on its edge.

Cars rush behind and below them, but, no matter how close the cars get, they don't flinch. All they do is stand, hands on the bridge's fence, and stare at the sunrise. 

As the clock ticks, they watch the sky’s dark blue mix with reds, purples, oranges and yellows. They stay there, busy staring, busy watching, as the color’s fade to the familiar light blue of a perfect day.

It's time for most people to go to work. They look down at them, at their cars as more and more of them rush by. Why are they rushing? Why aren’t they taking the time to breathe? Why are they so busy? Where do they have to be? What makes them willing to do it?

From the pocket of their jeans, a buzz. They ignore the first, but it comes again. Someone’s calling them. 

They don’t continue to ignore, but they don't pick up either, instead they grab the phone and, without glancing at it, they drop it on the sidewalk. 

Nothing but the screen breaks. 

The phone keeps buzzing. 

Who’d be calling them? 

They stare at the screen as the caller’s ID flashes across it.

Why’d anyone call them?

The phone buzzes again and again, but they just stare and wait for it to stop. 

Why are they waiting?

Eventually the buzzing stops, but that doesn’t last.

Why should they pick up?

There’s another call.

Why do people keep calling them?

Before the second buzz, they stomp on the phone.

What could someone say to help them?

Still the phone buzzes.

Why won’t everyone leave them alone?

They stomp on it again.

What did they do to deserve this?

They keep slamming their foot into the phone.

Why are they doing this?

It has no hope of working, but still they stomp.

Why are they here?

…

Why are they here?

Why are they here? Why are they here? Why are they here? Why are they here? Why are they here? Why are they here? Why are they-

Someone’s approaching.

Their head snaps in this new person’s direction as they, a runner, ask, “Are you alright?”

She, the runner, sees the tears that stain their cheeks.

In a softer voice she asks, “What’s wrong?”

They don’t wipe their tears. They don’t talk. All they do is stare and wait.

The runner steps closer as she pulls a tissue from her fanny pack. “Here.”

They don’t take it. They don’t need to. They don’t need anybody’s tissue.

The runner leaves it outstretched for a moment longer. “That’s fine,” she conceded as she puts the tissue in her bag.  “You probably don’t want company, still you seem to be going through a rough time, so I’m gonna stay with you for a while.”

They don’t need company either, so they say, “No.” Their voice is cracked.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” The runner smiles.

They don’t like the runner. They don’t like that she came up to them and now won’t leave. They want to be alone, but they don't know how to make the runner leave, so they do what they know best and stay silent. 

They don’t make a sound, so the runner does. “I guess we can play the quiet game.” She shrugs and leans on the fence at the edge of the bridge.

They stare and wait hoping the runner will get bored and leave. The runner doesn’t get bored, but they do. Standing, staring at her is putting their legs to sleep so they take a similar position to the runner, with their back to the fence.

“How old are you, kid?” she asks.

They stare, but don't answer, so the runner fills the silence. “I’m gonna be twenty three next month.”

They wait, hoping the runner will give up on talking to them.

“I graduated college a little over a year ago.” The runner looks over at them and asks, “What about you? Are you in college, or still a high schooler?”

They don’t respond.

“You look like a high school junior to me.”

She’s hit their pride, so they respond, only planning to correct her. “I graduated two months ago.”

“Very impressive.” The runner looks over at them. “Did you go to Lincoln High?”

Now they’re suspicious. “How did you know that?”

She laughs. “It’s the only high school around here.”

They’re still suspicious. “Why would a twenty-three year old know what high schools are in her area?”

“You’re pretty sharp.” She chuckles again. “But you’re worrying over nothing. I only know it because I grew up here.”

They are a little more relaxed, but not completely. “So you went to Lincoln High?”

“I did.” The runner nods.

“Prove it,” they insist.

“How am I supposed to do that?” She smiles lazily. “Wait, I know. He might not still be there but when I went there, there was this weird math teacher that’d call everyone buddy, including the other teachers.”

They think about it and recite his name, “Mr. Smeen.”

“You had him too?” she asks.

They change the subject. “Why’d you come back here? You had to go to college somewhere else, but after that you came back to this dump.”

“You really are sharp.” The runner looks away. “I’ll tell you if you tell me why you came here.”

Not expecting the question, they get defensive. “Why’d I tell you that?”

After taking a moment to think, she sighs and says, “Nevermind, I’ll just tell you.”

They can’t help but be interested, not when a runner who’d been acting so happy, sounds so sad.

She starts after taking a deep breath. “I came back to visit my brother’s grave.”

Before they can stop themself, they’ve let out an audible gasp.

She laughs hollowly before continuing. “Twelve years ago, when he was twelve, he came to this bridge,and did what you came here to do.” 

They’re shocked and ready to defend themself, to deny, but they don’t get the chance because the runner just keeps talking like she didn’t just uncover they’re secret.

“It’ll probably end here for you, but it didn’t for him. He survived the fall off the bridge.” She looks up at the sky. “The near death experience must not have changed anything for him because two months later I found him in the bathtub with the toaster.” She laughs a sob soaked laugh. “After he came here, I could tell something was wrong but I was a coward. I didn’t even talk ask him about it and now it’s too late for my brother.” She takes a deep breath and repeats, “It’s too late for my brother.” 

They don’t need to hear this. Why is she telling them this?

She looks at them. “It’s not too late for you.” 

The words spark something in them. It burns.

She steps in front of them and attempts to make eye contact as she says, “You can turn around and walk away from this.” 

They can’t. They’re rotting from the inside out. They can’t live.

The runner can’t see their arguments, so she continues. “You don’t have to die.”

They have to die because they don’t have the strength to keep living, but the runner would never understand that so instead of trying to explain it, they attack. “Why should I listen to you? You’ve never stood here. You don’t understand what it’s like to stand here? You can’t and you’re not trying to! You’re just here to curb your guilt. You’re just pretending to ‘help’ me because you didn’t do anything to help your brother.” They know they’re words are harsh, but they have yet to hear her leave, so they let more spill from their mouth. “You’re acting like ‘saving’ me will bring your brother back from the dead. Here’s the harsh truth, it won’t! You’re brother’s dead and there’s nothing you can do about it. You could have done something about it when he was alive but it’s too late-” They stop mid sentence when they look up and see the horrified look, frozen on the runner’s face. Before they can apologize or begin to backtrack the runner collects herself and responds.

“That’s not why I’m trying to help you.” She forces a smile despite the tears in her eyes. “I know my brother’s dead. I know helping you won’t change what happened to him, or make my life any better. I don’t have a real reason for doing what I’m doing, but I’m still here, doing what I can.”

They don't know how to respond, so they say nothing.

She takes a moment to collect herself before continuing. “I know convincing you to live won’t help me, but I still want to do it. I want to make you feel like life is worth living, like things will get better.”

This time, they know what to say. It’s a single word, and a question on top of that. “Why?”

The runner chuckles sadly. “Are you asking why I think life’s worth living or why I’m so gullible?” They stay silent, not specifying what they mean. 

“Everything changes eventually.” She looks at the sky. “Sometimes it gets worse, but other times it gets better.” She sits against the fence at the edge of the bridge. “The good feels a lot better when it’s following the worst, but if good appears only after the best then the good will never feel good.” She looks over at them. “Do you know what I mean?”

They shake their head.

She chuckles again. “You’re right to be confused. I don’t make a lot of sense, but that’s part of the fun.” She smiles at them. “Things that make sense are boring.”

They don’t know what to say, but they still say something. “Am I boring?”

She laughs again. “No. No you’re not. You’re different, but not boring.” She pats the spot on the bridge beside her. “You’re right that I don’t know about you or what you’re going through. I couldn’t. I’ve never met you before.” She looks at the sky again. “I can’t know why people do the things they do or why some of them want to die, but I won’t let that bother me.” She looks back at them. “When I want to understand something, I ask, so I’m gonna ask, what brought you here today?”

They’re hesitant, but they sit beside her. They sit there together on that bridge in the middle of somewhere.