THE FROSTY BRIDGE pt. 1

It was one of those nights in which I threw myself to the streets to take a walk outside. It was becoming something routine-like to me: something by which I can direct all of my concentration on anything outside but irrelevant to the mess in my life. I was barely an escapist; not that I was an utter coward, but for the feeling of aching in my chest each time I was forced to bear a fault, though not willing to. Of course, it was one of those nights of roaming the not-that-safe environment.

I had an argument with my wife -not argument, someone else would say, since the whole house was spinning around the world and my head- , for which I was trying to retain my optimism on conceptions; if I ever did not do so, our mental divorce would become real and a physical one. Thus I headed out in an instant, while I was being forced to bear and accept something which I knew is notright. I was not a conservative person after all, yet acquired a system of ethics, around which I developed a mechanism of personal rules. When something was against it, I needed to get out, since I was hell-sure that the values I clung to were the only things that stood by me, whereas everyone I knew home was gone: gradually or as instant as the blink of an eye. However, life is perceptional and the ethics is subjective, one might say, yet I did not care at that very moment. All I was about was to walk out and run, when exhausted, to start roaming and walking down by the riverside or the nearby bridge.

God, there was nothing and noone outside. There was no more drama and play anymore. No more audience, co-stars, scenery, applause, crying and yelling, no more lines. I was in some sort of greenroom wherein I peeled off my costumes of my skin; got bare naked again. How inaccurate and paradoxical it was when an actress despises theatre, drama; and all of the things by which she can afford her life; yet, having seen the more paradoxical and fair enough of the ambiguous, I could relate it to one’s hate of own profession. Somehow, it was quite intelligible, for I too was a human.

It was a failure, for, even if if I had a warm house there behind my back waiting for both my wife and me to take shelter under its roof, as motherly and protective towards us, I was heading far away, even forgotten to take my phone with me. It was a shame. Such a shame! After all the years which we had spent waiting for the same-sex marriage to turn legal. Now there we are, at the rooftop of the chapel of goals, at least, having dealt with a huge deal, striven, and eventually victorious. And there I was, out, finding myself searching for ways to never come back in. Why did Chloe do this to me? And why did I ever let her do this to me?

Simply, the question hanging in my head, driving me mad and consuming, was why the things which were supposed to be the biggest achievements in one’s life turn out to be the biggest failures. Why is it harder to change one’s own self than to change the even-more restrictive social norms, and more ironically, the laws itself. So the failure was not on the stacked odds, but on the mind. And I was too worn out trying to have myself more and more metamorphosed, having believed that it was all on me. Having believed that the shame was on me.

Then I was at the bridge, wherein I once met her, as I was rambling around with an enormous cancerous cyst of poisonously self-recurring confusions. I arrived at the bridge with an intention to gaze into fowling waters of the river and to calm myself down in order not to convince myself just enough to loose something off of my hands. Climbed up above the banisters, she was hanging herself, waggling back and forth. First I thought she was on pills and enjoying herself with some silly sense of fun, since I saw her gazing down at the waters with a smile shining on her face. Then I figured out her real intention to do so. An oncoming suicide. And by the most beautiful woman I had ever ever seen.

“Hey! What are you doing there?” yelled I, as quick as I can, to start my legs; attentive to catch her before it is too late. Then she, in an instant, turned her face towards the route I was following to run to the banisters. The shock was brute; not that the action was frightening, but that it was her face which was familiar.

Or I think so?

“I hate my husband!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “I’ll make him pay for all!”

“With your life, for fuck’s sake?”

Damn it. It was all of a sudden; too expeditious for that size of a person. And she jumped down to the river. Dying out of the rusty thirst in my mouth, all breathless and burning with fever, not sure whether or not from the startling incident or my hasty motion which I was not accustomed to. I tried to seize her arm, attempting to prevent before it is too late.

Fuck. It is too late.

Failed to save her, I failed myself drowning in the waters of the frosting river. It was a ruthless submarine inside the frost. Chloe!

Somebody has got to tell her. Tell her that I did not mean to leave her. I was just trying to save her life. The woman is gone. I cannot see the foam of the jump. She is gone. And I cannot f…