The Bridge of Screams

The walk home from work was a trudge. Too far, too many people on the sidewalks, too many horns honking, too much.

Unless it was Friday. There was an energy to a Friday, a clarity of thought, a clarity of being. For Friday was the day he visited the bridge.

He'd have loved to stop by each and every day, working or not, but too much of a good thing turns good into normal. Into boring.

The bridge was the most not-boring thing he'd seen in twenty years. Seen, though, was the wrong word. To the eyes, the bridge was nothing more than concrete, metal, and the paint of a graffitist obsessed with breasts. Rocks large enough for use as seats lined either side. It had taken him a half hour to find the least pointy spot. Everything was bland beyond measure, a grey which faded into its own background.

Nobody who saw the bridge gasped at its beauty. None stood in awe of the glorious structure holding two full lanes of traffic above a narrow footpath of crushed stone. The few who came this way, holding hands and sneaking kisses as they wandered among the trees, didn't even notice the bridge unless they stepped under it, into the shade it threw.

In the shade, you could hear the screams.

Not all the time or even every day, but sometimes, when things were right, she screamed.

People in fancy clothes and white coats had come with devices to measure wind and sound and a hundred other things. They'd stayed, with the footpath closed, for a week. At the end, they'd said 'formation', and 'wind shear', and other words which meant little, then run along home. Someone from the city showed up a few weeks later and banged away at some built up gunk until it fell, then scooped it up and wandered off.

She continued screaming.

He'd first heard it about two years ago when he took a different way home. When his foot touched the ground within the tunnel opening, in the shade, the sound hit him; a clear tone howling outrage and hate. Such was the torment, he'd almost turned about and fled to his usual route.

"I hear you." He'd mumbled words meaning nothing, an empty sentiment to a gentle breeze.

There was a sharp and sudden pause. It seemed a breath caught, a heartbeat missed, a surprise. The pause lingered, clearly present, then the screaming resumed.

He stepped to one of the rocks and sat down. Then he spoke of Joyce for a time. He spoke of meeting her long ago, of being stunned by the beauty of her hair, of the smile she gave him which almost stopped his heart. He told the screams, which cried more softly as the tale went on, of the sparkle in her eye the first time she kissed him.

He'd wiped a tear from his eye as he stood, then offered the empty tunnel a wave.

"I'll come back, if you'd like."

The screams turned to a deep, steady tone. Outrage hovered in the background, ensuring its presence was noted, but a hint of acceptance fluttered in front.

He'd visited every Friday and told different stories of Joyce and he, reliving the parts of his life which held joy and laughter. Joyce clinging to his neck and screaming in terror at the top of the Ferris wheel or the water fight they'd had while washing windows. He stumbled over her indescribable beauty on the day they married. He'd wept gently while describing the sickness which took so much of her. He'd stoically explained how much it cost to help someone who was sick. He'd calmly and carefully spoken of death over three visits. It had taken only a dozen words for the screams to understand loneliness.

The screams had changed since his first visit, at least when he was alone. The few times someone else walked through, they'd shrieked with a fury to ensure the visitor moved quickly. For him, they were soft and welcoming. The acceptance from the first day had grown enormously and warmth was the first thing he heard upon arrival. It always brought a smile to his lips.

"Hello," he said on entering the shadow. The answering howl was joyous. His usual rock seemed a much longer walk than normal, his steps being little more than shuffles today. Concern fluttered through the cries at his loud grunt on dropping to the bumpy surface.

"Sorry I'm late." He squeezed his hand tight a few times, it was stiff, a weight at the end of his arm. "Something happened at work today."

He paused for a few deep breaths; the screams fell silent.

"I was carrying something maybe a little too heavy and went maybe a little too far. I, uh, I think this is the last time I get to visit you."

If the screams under the bridge had been caused by wind, the gale needed to create the answering bellow would have thrown him from the shadow. He'd expected anger, far beyond rage, but there was none. The overwhelming sorrow in the mournful wail brought a fresh pain to his chest.

"I know. Honest, I do. I'd keep coming until the sun burned out, but it's not up to me."

A loud 'ahhh' full of confusion.

"I know you'll miss me, and I know you'll want to feel lonely."

An 'uuuh' heavy with dread.

"When you get so, think of me and my stories. We'll cheer you up."

A deeper 'uhhh' which settled upon him as a heavy blanket.

"I, uh, I guess you'd say I'm sick." He wiped a sheen of cold sweat from his forehead. It was harder to breath. "In my heart."

A rumbling 'vvvv' of concern.

"It's not so bad. Just pain." A gruff chuckle. "We can handle pain, eh?"

The 'vvvv' was louder, insistent.

"Don't think I'll last too long. Kinda surprised I made it the whole way here, truth to tell."

The 'VVVV' roared through the tunnel, louder than the screams he'd heard on his first visit, louder than they'd ever screamed.

"Suppose it's fitting, me dying in the shadows. Least I've got you."

Love

He heard it, so clear his breath caught, but not in his ears. His already straining heart quavered.

"What?" His voice was hushed.

Love

Such caring, such connection. He'd never taught the screams the word.

"Well, ah, thank you. You're very special to me."

Come

"Come?" He looked around and all was as it had been. It had to be hallucinations. He was dying and his brain was mixed up.

Come

"Where?"

A point of ruby light appeared before him, hovering an arm's length away. He half-closed his eyes at the brightness. So sharp, so red.

Come

Hope and yearning. A fear he couldn't understand. A desperate plea.

He lifted his hand, index finger extended towards the floating flare. Where would he go? What would happen to him? His arm ached from the effort of keeping it raised.

Love

He touched the light.

Red flooded through him. It seized his heart in fists of barbs and filled his lungs with broken glass. His every muscle spasmed and he collapsed to the crushed stone where he lay, quivering, with eyes clamped shut.

Everything was fear and pain. Grinding pain. Crushing.

"Come," a tender voice whispered in his ear. A soft hand closed around his. Pain vanished. Hope swelled. "Together."