Prelude to Greensbrooke Bridge...

A sequel to The Suicide Hotel

  I am sat by the stream, reflecting on my time at The Suicide Hotel. Rays of light cut through the green leaves above, rebounding off the surface of the water. I hear no birds chirping, winds howling - there is very little to remind me of the onward march of time (to remind me that the world keeps moving) aside from that playful light, dancing. 

  If I were to leave the shade by the stream, head out into the open fields, I know what I would see. I would observe a defiant sky, September blue... It's a self aware kind of blue, too pristine and spoilt to be real. It's the kind of summer sky that masks the chill to come. It will soon slide away, fall into the jaws of a brutal winter. 

  Is that why I sit in the shade? Is that why I let the shadows feast upon me and preserve my pale shade of white? There's just something more honest about this darkness. 

___

  Thinking back to that unreal encounter. The volatility of that girl. I suppose an aspect of her was like that summer blue sky; there was something about her which was manic, fiercely cheerful, yet it was always destined to drown in the stretch of bleak cold that lay ahead. 

___

  About 50 miles north of this tranquil little forest, my next assignment calls for me. The Greensbrooke Bridge. The Greensbrooke Bridge is the epitome of a nothing becoming a something. Constructed in the early '40s, this bridge acted as a pathway between two communities - the town of Packeenow and the village of Geai'a. It is functional, bland in appearance, what more to say? 

  It shouldn't be noteworthy; it's no feat of engineering or work of art. But it is noteworthy and hence my visit. 

___

  I am not at the wheel of my vehicle, as I would prefer, no, I am relegated to the passenger seat. My colleague Matt's sat in the driver's seat; he is an awkward driver, hands clasped tightly to the wheel as though, if he were to take a sharp corner, he maybe thrown out of the vehicle. This whole demonstration seems to speak to something within Matt - his car is flashy, new but Matt's mastery of the thing is simply not there. He is style without substance. 

  As I speak I notice an aloof detachment, it sounds like my words are only supposed to be audible to me, like I'm speaking to myself. I clear my throat and start the dialogue again...

  "So this is why... Packeenow, as you likely know, was a boom town. Lots of money to be made way back then. A ready supply of workers (under my breath I mumble to be exploited) to fill the textile mills, forges and factories. The river Kella which Packeenow sits upon, allows all the goods to float down stream, enter the oceans where they voyage out to all the great metropolises of the world. In the 40's Packeenow gets too big, too grimey and those who are making the real money want gone.

  

  Sure, they want to live nearby but they still want out. Well, Packeenow ain't really all too close to any other place. Except from, you guessed it, the little, quaint village of Geai'a. So all those business magnates want to go and build their nests there. What's the problem? Ironically, the Kella, which is responsible for their profits in the first place. A fairly important tributary of the river separates Packeenow from Geai'a. But where there's cash there's solutions, right? 

  And Greensbrooke bridge is born.

  It soons fall into disuse and disrepair. 

  See, as you might be aware a little recession came along and tore the heart out of Packeenow. Those factories, places of life and creation, began to stagnate and soon they sat like dormant volcanoes, yearning for the day they get to swirl about with the magma of industry once more. The endless drone of the workers, chatting, busy with labour, they were drowned out by a suffocating vacuum. 

  The wealthy of Packeenow now have no interest in the dead body on the autopsy table - a figurative dead body, of course - what with all the money packing up and leaving. So they start driving off to more distant cities."

___

  I pause to think of some violent metaphor or allegory. A vampiric farmer that tends to the bodily needs of its virgin pray, keeps her healthy and well so that he may feast upon her blood... but the first indication that blood might have become sour and that body is a burden and so it is neglected, discarded. There are always other meals to consume.

  There is a certain tension that inhabits the space in-between me and Matt. It's tangible, just as real as my body and just as real as his. It sits, another passenger on the ride, as our car begins to move closer to its destination. The silence is feeding it, making it palpable and so I carry on with the tale. 

___

  "In the midst of this transition (if you could call it that, I'd opt for disintegration) we have our Romeo and Juliet story, alongside the guest star, Greensbrooke Bridge. Sarah Alles - a girl from a reputable family of the nouveau riche. Soft, delicate, not quite belonging to them. By all accounts she was sweet natured to most but she despised the social conservatism of her family. Her lover is simply known by his nickname - Mars. Somewhat of an alias, it makes you wonder if this whole thing is somewhat made up. Yet I proceed. 

  Sarah falls in love with our young protagonist who comes from an obscure family from Packeenow. How they came to know each other, well, your guess is as good as mine. They're young. Blood. Hormones. The area of wood near the Greensbrooke Bridge becomes their getaway. The trees don't know their names, or status. They cannot absorb the seething class hatred that brews within both of their families.  Trees are deaf to accents and blind to jewels. The birds that perch on their branches are indifferent to the human world as they chirp their dreamy chirps. 

  And the vast stars, laboratories of fate, that knew everything there ever was to know. Well, they flicker in their own beautiful ambivalence as the lovers spread their clothes across Earth's black soil. You imagine it was night time when the baby was conceived." 

___ 

  At that point I notice that Matt is exhibiting traces of emotion; I have punctured that rigid exterior and maybe there is something genuine circulating through him... an actual passion, as opposed to that faux interest. I want to believe this; I want to believe in more than cogs, mechanisms - dull and lifeless movement. 

___ 

  "Babies are supposed to be a gift. If you're not 17 and the other parent is not on the side of some other socioeconomic fence. See Sarah and, yes, Mars (I watch Matt frown at the mention of the name) have spawned something more than life. They have emancipated, liberated a demonic being - human tribalism, a primitive hunger to inflict violence on the other. 

  It's September. We are on the Greensbrook Bridge, a relic of some bygone era when prosperity knitted too competing communities into a reluctant harmony. That has been fractured. Two cars are parked up on the dimly lit bridge, two out of six 40's era lamps producing some sort of vintage light. A sleek car of sophistication is facing a beaten wagon - a real beast of burden that looks like it has survived the centuries. 

  Both children are in their respective cars, facing each other. The family patriarchs - who were tasked with brokering an amicable solution regarding the future baby - have eyes locked upon each other. This is no peaceful discussion, not a thoughtful meeting of minds. This is the grinding of two tectonic plates, pressing up against each other. This is pure animalistic animosity. Body language, gesturing takes precedence over words, articulation. 

  Sarah and Mars are cursed with that wretched task of spectating; afraid, intimidated they cannot open their car doors and enter the fray. For they are children, for all intents and purposes. How tremendously vast that chasm must have appeared to them. To be so close to each other, yet to be completely sealed off, behind that wall of charged, malign flesh."

___

  Everything appears to be calming down. The patriarchs turn away from each other. And tragedy boldly rips through this illusion with a gun in its hand. For Sarah's father - the father of a spoilt flower, an innocent angel brought to Earth by the hands of scum - shifts his body back towards Mars and his father (who is now walking towards his car). There is the noise of reality being ruptured, an ear drum perforating crack. A bullet buries its way into the back of one body, that keels over and collapses. Three more bullets are discharged in a frenzy of anger. Sarah watches, desperate and helpless, as one uncaring bullet turns Mars into a lifeless pile of atoms - a lump of stone, leaking magma. 

  That is the story of Greensbrooke Bridge.