La chute

Amethyst
Amethyst
Jul 30, 2017 · 2 min read

As I crossed the bridge, a woman was leaning over the rickety parapet, her eyes burning through the river’s dirty water. As I passed her, she turned to look at me, her black veil shimmering along to the November wind. She reminded me of a figure I once, years ago, carved on a tree away from home. Her face bore the marks age and war left on a person, a condign punishment for those who battled the odds and made it through the other end of the tunnel.
She looked at me with stoic indifference, and yet her eyes held mine as if to confine the secrets of the universe to me. And I looked at her, at her auburn hair that mirrored mine in length, at her daedal scars and the water drops on her neck. Her scent, defying the distance between us, had reached to me and reminded me of things my solipsism had long since effaced. She smelled of home and of the coffee I secretly drank when I was a child.
I hesitated for a few seconds, taking in the way her puerile eyes looked at me, and the way her dress swam around her, like a flame of darkness roaring up to the sky, and then continued to walk down the bridge.
I don’t know how far I had gone when I heard it, the sound of her body as it attacked the still water. It still resonates in my ears to this day.
I stopped, but I did not turn. I listened as her muffled cries fought against the water stream, until they were completely smothered. And as the nocturnal silence returned, I caught glimpse of her lambent scarf flowing triumphantly on the water surface.

Amethyst

Written by

Amethyst

Loves the smell of Amber, Tar, dried Absinthe and wood. Has a knack for describing what vaginas taste like.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade