Paloqua Bridge

Paloqua bridge is like a portal to another place. An eight hundred meter long colossus of metal and rust trailing off in the distance, like a giant snake waiting to strike. Watching the tram rustle across the railings I can’t help but imagine it all come tumbling down. The screaming. Broken bones. Blood. Paloqua bridge is no ordinary bridge. I’ve passed over it countless times the last ten years.

Today is no different than the others. Far away I can see smoke rising from industrial chimneys, a smoke signal telling me to stay away. I look around at all the other poor schmucks. Overalls, lunchboxes, someone talking on the phone, telling his wife that he loves her. In a corner a bum lay sleeping. People look at him but he’s no different from us, really. We’re all dirty, old men and women that got stuck somewhere and didn’t have the will to keep going. We chose the lesser evil, the comfort of a monthly paycheck over freedom. We didn’t understand. I didn’t understand.

The tram stops. We all get off. Every building looks the same. The only difference is the neon letters letting us know where our company is. I linger for a second at a rose bush and look over at the others. We look like ants, working for something that will never be ours.

This is my life. Staring out a factory window hoping for something to happen. A fire, or perhaps a nuclear bomb going off. Anything would be better than going back to this place. This dark, evil place where dreams go to die. The smell of the welding machine is permanently stuck in my nose. The sound of Bernies incessant chewing goes round and round in my head like a bad cuckoo clock.

Most of us die here, not always the death of the body, but of the soul. The body goes on long after the soul is gone, trudging forward like a bad case of dementia. We forget how to eat, how to drink beer, how to fuck. The only thing left is to sit at our station and assemble parts, maybe weld something. It never ends.

”Hey Paul, check this out.”

I don’t even have to look to know that it’s Bernie. The chewing gives him away. Always beef jerky. Always.

”What’s up Bernie?” I try to sound happy.

He gives me his phone. Another picture of his cat. I can’t even tell the difference anymore, he might aswell show me the same picture every day and I wouldn’t notice.

”Cute.”

”Damn right it is. This cat is one of a kind. Smart fucker too. Yesterday she opened the front door and was sitting on the stairway waiting for me.”

Nobody cares, Bernie. Nobody cares.

”Really?”

”Yeah.” Chewing. Like a big garbage disposal. ”It’s crazy.”

He leaves. I look at the clock on the wall. A quarter past seven. Only eight hours and fortyfive minutes left. Only eight hours and fortyfive minutes I will never get back. This is my life, dying a little more each minute.

Something catches my eye. A small, white feather sailing down towards me. I reach out to grab it but it’s gone.

Vernik.”

Mr. Roberts looks like Teddy Roosevelts long lost brother. A caricature of everything America used to be.

”Boss.”

”How are we today?”

I can almost see a smirk on his face. It’s barely noticeable, just a tiny crack in his smile.

”Good, boss. Working hard.”

I concentrate on the piece of iron in my hands, not even sure what I’m supposed to do with it. I look at him but he’s already gone, off to say good morning to the next one.

A white flash. A memory of something I can’t quite grasp. I shake my head and let it go. Didn’t sleep too well last night. Nightmares again.

The bell rings. Breakfast time. The old men hurry into the dining room to get the best seats, close to the coffee machines. I stay at my station until the floor is empty, then I go up the stairs onto the roof. It’s the only place where I feel ok. The only place that lets me breathe. I sit down, legs in front of me as if I was on a picnic. Behind me the ventilation system humms heavily. A couple of birds fly into the giant plume of smoke rising above and emerge on the other side.

My name is Paul Vernik and I died ten years ago. Paul Vernik is no more. If anyone comes looking for me, tell them to go home. Tell them I’m never coming back. This is what eternity looks like.

The bell rings again. A shrill, piercing tune that someone, somewhere, thought was funny but now is nothing more than a thing to hate. We need things to hate. If we don’t have those we will hate each other, our bosses, or god forbid, our jobs. They feed us with news of shootings in the next town over, tell us about the middle-east and how their women can’t bathe topless or go to the store on their own. And we devour it. Each morning we check the paper just to have something to hate even more than ourselves. Guns are evil. Guns are awesome. Religion’s good as long as it’s our religion, fuck those other gods, elephant gods and prophets without faces, telling people to go out and murder us and our families. Fear them. Fear the world around you, not the emptiness inside.

I sit back down at my station. Bernie walks past with a fresh pack of beef jerky in hand. I’m sure he had another for breakfast. Big, old, fat Bernie. Twentyfive years and counting. Wife left him, never had kids. Now he lives alone with that cat of his, waiting for retirement so he can take even more photos of it.

I don’t take photos anymore.

Aspark cries out through the silence. Fire cuts like knives. A piece of flat metal crashes to the floor and old man Henderson looks up with a smile. Another one down. I look at him and see nothing but wrinkles. There’s nothing left but skin. He cracks a beer open and pours it on his balding head.

”Henderson!”

Mr Roberts comes running. You can almost see the fumes.

”No beer on the premises, I told you this!”

Henderson empties the can and crushes it in the palm of his hand. He stares at Mr Roberts. In that split second I think I see a flash of life in him.

”Sorry boss. Won’t happen again.”

Mr Roberts picks the can up and points it at him.

”It better not.”

The entire floor is silent, not even the pistons from the nailing machine makes a sound. When the sound of the can hitting the trash echoes through the factory it all starts up again. The anomaly is over. Everything back to normal. Yet I can feel something stirring.

The clock strikes four. I get up and grab my jacket. Through a small window the sun shines straight at me. Go to sleep, there’s nothing for you here.

Chewing. Smell of beer. Giggling from one of the secretarys. A boy is talking her up, hoping to get some of those sweet lips of hers. Go on boy, embrace that shit. There’s still a chance for you. Don’t end up like old man Henderson, bald and used up. Don’t end up like Bernie. Don’t end up like me.

I look at the rails. In five minutes the tram will be here. It will stop and pick us up, then take us back over Paloqua bridge. Back to the real world. Carry me away from this darkness. Above us something flies past. I’m too slow to see but a white feather sails into the water. No one else seems to notice. They’re all staring at some imaginary point in the distance to avoid small talk. No one wants small talk on the other end of Paloqua bridge. No one wants anything but to go home.

The kid is still talking to the secretary. He’s thin, with a full head of hair and all teeth left. As good as it gets around here. No wonder she’s giggling. They’re throwing rocks at a telephone pole, trying to hit the carving in the middle. I made that once, when I just started out. It’s supposed to be a seagull but mostly just looks like a walking piece of tofu. I wonder if you remember.

The silence is broken by the sharp, screeching noise of the tram pulling in. The driver’s wearing sunglasses. I can’t tell if he looks at us or at something else. We all get on. The kid throws one last stone and then hops on like it was the bus to the Cubs game. Don’t end up like us, kid. In the distance the bridge lowers. It almost looks like the preface to a roller coaster. When it evens out I see the city in the distance. Towers. Cars. Neon lights. Somewhere in there is my apartment. Somewhere in there you would wait for me. My Sarah. My seagull.

Paloqua bridge is nothing. A blueprint come to life, the wet dream of some engineer trying to make a living. This is his bridge. Paloqua bridge was made by us. It used to mean something to someone. Now it’s just a bridge.

We pass the halfway point. Something flashes in my brain. Cold sweat and fever. Pain in my lower abdomen. I look up and see Hendersons contorted face staring back at me. He looks different, almost handsome. But where are his wrinkles? I look at the kid flirting with the girl. They’re fucking now, like an old porno. No one cares. Suddenly something cracks inside me and I close my eyes. When I open them it’s all gone. All around me a vast, empty landscape of nothingness in every direction. The only thing still here is Paloqua bridge.

Is it time?

Something creaks. The tram is hanging on by a thread, dangling over the raging water below. I hold my breath. To tell the truth I’m afraid. I didn’t think that was possible anymore. The tram creaks again and a piece of the railing gives way. From here the fall would be like cracking open a watermelon. The water would hit me like a flyswatter made of cement. I swallow. It tastes like ham sandwich and tap water. Spit and death.

Go ahead. Die.

I feel something on my lap. I look down. There’s a feather. White, too white. I can’t look at it for more than a second before my head starts to hurt. The railing creaks again. It gives way. The tram falls.

And this one’s from last christmas. Somehow she managed to get ahold of santas hat and put it on fire. Good thing I got that fire extinguisher.”

Beef jerky. Bernie. I see a picture of a cat looking at the flaming inferno of santas hat. It looks like such an asshole, but of course Bernie doesn’t see that.

”So what are you doing tonight?” he asks.

I straighten my back and try to get my bearings. A slight, lingering headache reminds me of the feather.

”I don’t know Bernie. Probably drink a couple of beers and fall asleep on the couch.”

”Oh I couldn’t do that…” Not another fucking cat story. ”Miss P would kill me.”

He gave his cat a nickname.

”That’s her spot.” I hear it somewhere in the background, like white noise. I hear alot of things that I won’t remember a minute from now. I hear the kid running out of things to say. I hear old man Henderson yelling at his wife through the phone. I hear the complete and utter sadness of two hundred people trying to get by.

I hear nothing. The whole world is silent, an echo frozen in time. It’s like the combined noise of all of them together somehow made it all stop.

Around me are bodies, nothing more than bodies, free from thought, free from fear. I poke Bernies gut. The fat ripples like small waves crashing onto the beach, his finger stuck on that damn cat.

And then I’m back. At the middle of Paloqua bridge there is nothing but air and thoughts. The screaming of the wheels as they desperately pull us forward across rusted iron. Two seagulls flee in panic as we go squeaking by.

This bridge is cursed.

”Goddammit Martha! I told you to not let the fire go out.” Henderson yelling at his wife. Love can turn so quickly. A small speck of disbelief and the person we thought we wanted becomes something else entirely.

He cracks another beer. Everyone knows he’s a drunk. He gets away with it because he does it at night. The smell disappears after an hour or two of work. The bottles he downs there are mostly for show, to let the boss know he won’t take his fucking shit. In a way it actually works.

So the tram latches onto the road and we leave Paloqua bridge behind. Everything is a little lighter in the city, like the atmosphere is somehow not as much of a burden. I see women in fancy suits hurry across the pavement. I see dogs with no owners eating food from trash cans. I see skyscrapers towering over all of it like gods, gods made of money, housing those wailing souls begging for life. They’re not more free than us, they only think they are, held down by expensive fabric and silk ties.

I get off at the next stop and start walking. I don’t even say goodbye to Bernie even though I know he wants me to. His big fat face is watching me through the window. This is the only moment of peace I have, the walk from the tram to my apartment. A flicker of life in the midst of it all. Broken men on broken benches, the smell of kebab from the shitty place on the corner. As I walk past the flower store I see an orange and black butterfly. It almost looks like a feather.

My place is like all other big city apartments; dark, the kind of dark that no lamp can break through. It’s still there though, my old floor lamp, hanging on for dear life. I close the door and let my lunch bag fall to the floor. There would have been total silence if it wasn’t for the ventilation system humming slowly at the back. In the distance I hear a door closing, a voice calling for someone. I close my eyes and drop into my chair. The world is not here. The world is not at my throat right now, but somewhere else. It can’t touch me. I sit here until it gets dark. Take me away, far away from this place. From my thoughts and the knot in my stomach telling me that all is lost. It’s seeping in through the windows, rivers of darkness penetrating my senses.

It’s strange how hard it is to forget. This is the most alive I will feel all day. A tiny reminder that I used to be more than this. Then the alarm rings and I go back to that place. But not yet. At the corner of my eye I see the message lamp blinking. I have a phone but rarely use it. There are few people I’d like to talk to, even fewer that are still around. I press the button.

”Hey sweetie. It’s mom. I hope you’re all right over there. We miss you. Please call me when you get this.”

Message deleted. Two more.

”Hey sweetie. It’s mom again. You never called back and I just wanted to check that you’re alright. Please call me, ok?”

Message deleted. Last one.

”Listen pal, this is your dad. I know you don’t want to talk to us but your mom hasn’t given up on you yet. Can you call her up so she can relax? She raised you, show some respect.”

I keep that one, as a reminder. I pick the phone up and hover over the dials. I still remember their number, I didn’t shut that out. I start punching it in but stop at the last one. I think I see a feather sailing past outside. It’s pure white, a light in the dark. I hang up and walk to the window. Something cracks and I see my own warped image staring back at me. The window is breaking apart at the seams, like a tired mirror. I look up at the rooftops and see nothing. An eternal blackness encompassing me. I see a tiny source of light up there, on the tallest tower, and then it’s gone. I think I hear a voice. It’s familiar, yet far away. Crying. Angst. Broken thoughts and broken bones.

I snap back. The phone is ringing. Without thinking I pick it up.

”Good evening sir! Have you taken the time to look over your electricity provider?”

”Fuck you.” I hang up.

Fuck him. Fuck them all. The hole in my chest is growing bigger. I do what I always do when this happens. I go to bed. A bird took a shit on the window next to it. A big, fat, white bird shit.

Iwake up with a shadow towering over me. It’s the same one, a tall guy in a hat staring me down. I pull back slightly, more out of reflex than fear. I’m used to it now.

”So you’re here again huh?”

He doesn’t say anything. If it weren’t for the slight draft from the window making his sleeves move it would look like an oil painting. I still don’t know who he is. I open my eyes and stare at the empty space on the wall. Nothing. A mirror of myself. An abyss. Blackened heart and blackened soul. Sometimes all we can do is hope for it to shed.

I usually can’t go back to sleep after this. I turn over and stare into the mushy shape of my pillow. Why do I still do this? What keeps me here? There’s no answer. I could call myself a coward. I could say I was weak. The truth is I don’t have anything else. Even though my life is a disappointment it’s still mine. I think alot of people feel that way. When you don’t have anything left you latch onto the thing that most resembles what you want. I want peace. Freedom. A shrimp sandwich with eggs and mayo. The will to stand up straight in the midst of all this. But right now the shrimp sandwich.

I get up and check the fridge. Of course I don’t have shrimp. Who in their right mind has shrimps at home. I tear a piece of dry bread from the plastic bag, crush an egg with my hands and slam them together, slathered with a huge pile of mayo. The thing about having a broken heart is that coronary disease doesn’t feel as bad. It’s an out. I take a bite and watch the clock strike three.

New day. Same as always. I’m sitting on the tram headed towards Paloqua bridge. No one bothers each other in the morning. Old man Henderson is reading the paper with a slight smell of alcohol seeping from his skin. Bernie’s looking through his phone, most likely planning what cat photo to show me on the ride home. The sour taste of black coffee lingers on my tongue. It’s the only way to jolt me to life after a night like this. Staring back at the city behind us I see the tower from the day before. A strange feeling of deja vu. I was there once. With you.

We rise up through a slight tilt in the railing. The sun burns my eyes but I don’t look away. Let them burn. Let everything burn.

White flashes.

I see the burning wreckage of everyone I know tumbling down into the water. Flayed skin, eyes looking at me through melted eyelids. The smell is nauseating. This must be what a cannibal barbeque smells like. I’m hanging on to the top of the seat. My wrists ache, but I don’t want to let go. Not yet. Bernies phone drops through the hole at the bottom of the wagon, hits a rock and shatters into a dozen pieces. Only seconds after he comes tumbling down with a large hole in his head. The metal bar came loose and pierced his skull. Through all this I don’t look away. Somewhere deep down I realise that it would be the sensible thing to do, that all this death should make me uneasy, maybe ill. But it doesn’t.

I come to just as we’re passing the highest point of the bridge. The sun is blocked behind a pillar, small shafts breaking away behind it, like it suddenly got a great idea. This bridge is everything I know. It used to be everything you knew, too. Until you left.

Dreams are nothing more than dreams. They can’t change things, really, only how you feel. I used to dream that I was a rat, sometimes a fly. In the dream I either flew or scurried around my old home. Through the chimney. Across the living room floor. Maybe grabbed a piece of food left behind before I pressed through the cellar door and descended into darkness. This dream had no meaning. It didn’t show me anything. It didn’t teach me things. It was merely a reimagining of my deepest darkest desires. We all have them. We all know them. I wanted to be invisible to the world, a shadow disappearing into the night. The vermin of the world is infinitely more free than us. So what if they eat shit and carry diseases, most of us do.

My machine is no different from yesterday. Maybe slightly tilted to the right from the cleaning lady. It presses small screws into small orifices so that whatever shit we’re making at the time doesn’t fall apart. All I have to do is put the metal piece down, align it correctly and pull a lever. That’s it. The accumulated brain power needed for this vast task is about equal to taking a piss without missing the crapper. Bernies job is to check that I did everything right and then put a sticker on the part that gives it a number. A name. His job is slightly harder since he has to peel the stickers off the paper before applying them, all while chewing beef jerky. Old man Henderson probably has the hardest job in here. He has to weld all the shit together with a large blowtorch. That’s why he can do whatever he wants, he’s the only one that knows how to do that stuff. They could probably get another guy if they really wanted to but what’s the point? He could be even worse.

The smell of the welding mixed with Bernies chewing is driving me crazy as usual. Every time I pull the lever I do so with increasing force, until eventually I break one of the screws holding it in place. The whole machine stops and everyone looks at me. The total silence of an entire workfloor screaming silently in the hope that it isn’t gonna be an easy fix. Promises of a day at the beach, maybe some kissing beneath the stairs outside. The moment is broken by Roberts barging out of his second floor office.

”What’s going on?”

”Vernik broke his machine boss.”

Normally I would be pissed at Bernie for ratting me out, but I don’t feel anything. Not even the bulging vein on Roberts’ forehead can rattle me. Tiny particles of spit flying as he tells me to fix it, giving away that he’s actually really, really upset but isn’t allowed to show it because he’s already hanging loose after that incident last year.

”Yes sir.”

My words are like a muslim praying to the hindu gods. Worthless and without meaning. I imagine prying off the handle and shoving it down his eyesocket as my co-workers try to stop me. It will be too late. No hope for Mr Roberts. Fuck Mr Roberts.

This is not a good day.

It takes some poor technician an hour to fix the machine. They have spare parts in the storage room and I watch as he pants and wheezes trying to tighten the screws enough to make sure they don’t pop out and hit me in the eye. He’s got a nose piercing and the kind of body that lets you know he listens to way too much shitty metal. Cigarettes and cheap vodka created this maintenance man. Flesh and veins, blood and skin.

”Hey buddy, could you help me out with this?”

A hint of resentment in his voice. I help him tighten the screws. Can’t wait to get back to work after all, to do my part in making our great nation prosper. He tests the machine out and it works again. I can go back to pulling the lever and trying to drown out the thoughts in my head. This kind of work can’t be done while thinking, it’s too depressing. You have to try to not remind yourself that the seconds ticking away won’t come back. You have to try to remind yourself that there is nothing else out there for you, that this is what you get.

A beeping lets us know that we can get back to work. They all come pouring in, like mindless drones. I stand at my station and pull the lever, thinking about nothing, nothing at all. Then it’s lunch time.

”So I saw this porno yesterday-”

Henderson’s speaking. When he speaks they all listen. He’s seen some shit, or at least that’s what he wants us to believe. I’m not even sure he’s really that old. A crippling alcoholism will squeeze your skin into dishrags before you know it. Can’t they smell it? The musky scent of cheap beer creeping out of his every pore?

”-it was the sickest shit I ever saw. No idea why they even make that stuff.”

I know why. To keep the lonely company. To make the world a little more bearable for those of us that don’t have anyone. Do you think 300-pound Brad will ever get a girl? He’s in his thirties and never had a job, his parents gave up on him when he got a stomach gnat that forced him to wear a diaper for the rest of his life. Who would fuck him? There’s nothing left for him but to look at depraved shit on the internet and dream of another life.

I know why, but I don’t tell them.

”What the fuck Henderson! I’m trying to eat here.”

Cynthia pushes her food away. She’s the only woman eating with us because she’s the only woman that works the machines. She doesn’t talk much except when she yells at old man Henderson for being disgusting.

This room brings out the worst in us. This room where we’re supposed to eat and relax is more a mishmash of undesirable qualities. Most of these guys aren’t even that ugly, but in here they look like monsters.

I stare down at my lunch. I think it’s pasta with tomato sauce, it’s hard to tell. Cooking was never my strong suit. Neither was remembering what the hell I put in the freezer. With a water-stained fork I whirl the pasta around and around. Pretend it’s a maelstrom. Pretend it’s here. That I broke the machine bugs me. Not because I care what they think, but because I had to act like I cared. I had to act like I was sorry. Like I’d do my damnedest not to let it happen again.

Flash forward. The food is gone but I don’t remember eating it.

Only me and Cynthia left.

”What the hell Vernik?”

I look at her. I can tell she sees that I don’t know what she’s talking about. She gets up and walks across the room to the door.

”You’re not right. Not right at all.”

What happened? I look down into my lunch box again and see a feather. It’s stained red with tomato sauce. Or is it something else? Maybe I really am losing it. The flashes have come more often these last days. I bang my hand on the table so the salt and pepper tip over and crash to the floor.

”Vernik?”

Old man Henderson is staring at me from the doorway.

”You ok man?”

I shake my head. ”I don’t know.”

”Look, what you did, it’s fine. I’ve seen some shit. I know it gets to you, this place.”

I don’t even remember what I did.

He slaps me on the head. ”But it’s none of your goddamn business what me and my wife does or doesn’t do.”

I can tell from his voice that he’s not one hundred percent serious. He reaches into his pocket and brings out a beer.

”You wanna split one?”

”Sure, what the hell.”

He cracks it open and takes a sip, then hands the can to me.

”I always liked you, Vernik. You keep to yourself. And I can tell you hate that goddamn cat of Bernies too.”

I nod at him. There’s no need for words. Henderson doesn’t need them. He could probably keep an entire conversation going all by himself if he needed to. I find myself wondering if his wife is even on the phone when he calls her. I don’t feel good today. Worse than usual. I think it shows, because he never does this. He never takes time to talk to anyone like this. Maybe a shitty beer in a moldy lunch room is the extent of Hendersons ability to reach out.

We finish the beer and go back out. Everyone is staring at me but Henderson tells them to fuck off and go back to work. Even though I know he won’t be like this tomorrow, right then I feel like he’s my only friend in this shithole.

I pull the lever a couple hundred times more. I think I need a break. To sleep. To rest. As the bell rings I’m just barely aware of leaving. Just barely aware of getting on the tram.

It’s late. I’m in my apartment, in my chair, staring out the window at the building across from me. There is nothing there. A blank wall with small cracks and bird shit. It’s too high up for graffiti. I don’t know what day it is, what time it is. A creeping feeling of despair washes over me as I realise I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. I check my pants in case I pissed myself. It seems I didn’t. A siren flies by outside. An ambulance, or maybe the cops. Someone died tonight. Someone dies every night, and it all goes on. Death is not the end of the world. With time your friends and family will adapt to you not being there. They will celebrate birthdays, fuck, get divorced, have kids, get drunk, go to another funeral. Eventually you’ll just be a speck of dust on their timeline. A memory. Two decades later they have to dig up your photo from the attic to even remember what you looked like.

Death is not the end, only for you.

Apparently it’s three-thirty in the morning. I get up. My legs are weak. I guess I didn’t eat much. I raid the fridge trying to find something edible. A cucumber that looks like a flaccid dick. Milk that’s no longer running. Bread that could probably be used as a baseball bat. I find some canned olives. It tastes synthetic, like a liquid pill, but it’s something. I finish my olives and get dressed. I need to get out.

The city is different at this hour. On a starry night I think I can see shapes standing before me in the moonlight, contours of people that aren’t really here. A bird flies past above me. It drops a feather that lands in front of me. I pick it up. It’s a white feather. I know where to go. I don’t want to, but I know.

I walk the usual route to the tram. The kebab place is closed now. Without the fat armenian guy in the window it just looks sad. Forgotten. I try to catch the scent of kebab in the air but it’s long gone. I guess he has a life too. Maybe a wife, kids.

The tram doesn’t leave as often at night. I have to wait for ages next to a thin woman rambling on about jesus and judgement day. She keeps staring up into the sky and then cowering beneath her blanket. She’s on something but I don’t know what. Maybe the fumes finally got to her, or she found some cheap meth and decided to conjure up a nasty psychosis. I see that her leg is all fucked up.

”Are you ok?”

She keeps staring up into the air chanting shit I can’t even make out. Her leg isn’t supposed to bend that way.

”You should go to a hospital.”

She looks at me, gasps, and hops away on her only working leg. I wonder what happened to her, or who. Some people are sturdy as rocks, others break just by being around the person they love for too long. These can be saved, but when sturdy people break there’s no going back. They’re gone. Nothing left but a shell.

In the silence of this dead city I can hear the tram from a mile away. Seconds later I see it. The driver looks like the loneliest man on earth in his dimly lit space. He looks at me and stops. As I get on he opens the door.

”You know there’s no return trips for several hours?”

”I know.”

”Suit yourself.”

I sit down next to the window and watch drunk people stumble home. No one’s going this way. There’s nothing here now. Nothing but me and this tram. The horizon is burning, a thousand shades of red, orange and yellow. Burning for this.

I can see Paloqua bridge in the distance. It’s as if the tram is drawn there by something more than the machinations beneath. An invisible string is pulling us towards that colossus, that rusted piece of cursed metal. I wish I could tell him to stop, but I can’t. Frozen in place I stare at the pieces of knit iron holding it together, at the bleeding wound in the sky hiding behind it. We’re close now. Behind me buildings shrink as i look back. There’s nothing between me and it. Nothing but empty space.

Between the two points tying the islands together there is a stop. At the middle of the bridge a small platform leading out onto the railing. I get off there. The wind is tearing into my cheap jacket, blowing invisible holes in my body. I don’t care. I keep walking towards the edge, to where the walkway stares down far into the abyss below. In my palm I still feel the feather. I know what it means.

Below a fishing boat glides past. I follow it with my eyes until it passes under me. It must be five in the morning by now, or maybe much later. Time is fleeting when you drift away, an anomaly underneath the weight of my thoughts. They haven’t been good ever since. I had to drown them in this job that I hate, each day passing over a landmark I can’t stand. In this strange darkness I am nothing. Maybe that’s the point.

Were you ever really here? Or were you just something I made up to make everything more bearable?

Ihold my hand forth and drop the feather into the ocean. The wind grabs it and pulls it away, too quickly. I immediately regret letting go. Some things are meant to last. Some things are good and pure. Like us. This is what happens when the hole in your chest grows bigger. You start hating, despising, because in place of that I don’t know what I’d do. Ever since that day I’ve seen flashes of this, this hate that is growing inside me, tainting the world, the people. I hate them without reason, without the slightest bit of truth in it. I hate them because they’re not you. They could never be you. And so I dream of them burning, of their flesh disintegrating and their bones breaking. Because that is what I would give to have you back. I’d let it all burn, the whole fucking world, if only it meant you’d rise up from this grave and return to me.

This was the place. A couple of hundred meters to the east we carved our initials in the oak tree by the beach. And right here is where you ended it. The bug in your brain kept eating and eating until there was nothing left but ash. I saw you melt away more each day, and I still loved you. I loved the shit out of you and then one day you were gone. Paloqua bridge is evil. You always said it were. I didn’t believe you until that moment.

It’s raining now. A stinging autumn rain thumping against the iron plates beneath my feet. I turn around and start walking back. I have no idea how long I’ve been here, but I can hear the tram in the distance.

This is where you left. I don’t know why. I never quite understood.

I just know that I could never forget you.