The Bridge

Alyssa wakes up to her whole town missing and is unaware of her true situation.

I awoke this morning to claps of thunder and whistling wind slapping my windows. Neither as pleasant as the chirps of songbirds I'm used to hearing. I pull the curtains aside slowly, but still the light burns my eyes. Blinded, I can just barely see my father's rusty red  pickup truck driving away into the fog. I run out the door to chase him.

“Where could he possibly be going?”

Each step is more difficult as I struggle towards him. I’m running in water with anchors chained to my ankles. Coming out of the water to catch my breath, there's still an ocean in my eyes. I am alone and I've come to the conclusion that it’s all I'll ever be. My mother and father separated when I was quite young, three years old; now I’m seventeen. Though I don't remember her much, the pain is still there. My dad is all I have.

Had.

I can't run anymore; my body hits the floor. With a few short breaths and a yell that sounds silent, I return to my feet and travel home. There's no hope for me; he just left, leaving a trail of rust and tire tracks. Now hope is nothing more than the dust resting on my windowsill and the mud splattered on my front door, even the house is leaving me, rotting at this very second.

"Charlie?" I shout. "Here, boy!" I yell, whistles and clapping hands follow. But Charlie's gone too.

“Why would he leave me alone like this? Am I that much of a burden?”

Tossing papers around throughout the house, flipping through pages in every individual book, opening every single cupboard or drawer, and throwing all of the clothes around, I attempt to find some sort of note, an "I'll be back soon", the tiniest glimmer of hope.

Nothing.

An hour passes before my eyes. Still no dad, still no Charlie. Once I step back outside, I realize the entire town is vacant; nothing but a cool, whirling breeze that smells like fear, empty cars terribly parked near empty buildings and the eerie creaking of tree branches. Like a lost puppy, I mope around looking for my father. I pass car after car until I reach the end of our town and find myself at a bridge leading to the next town. I’ve yet to see a single person, but a set of taillights catches my eyes. It doesn’t seem too far, but the anchors are still tied to my ankles and I’m still underwater. It’s hard to breath, it’s hard to keep the ocean from pouring out of my eyes.

“Even if I do run after them, I won’t catch up… Try anyways,” my mind argues, but I don’t. There’s no point.

What seems like hours, months, maybe even years pass by, but still nothing changes. This town remains the same. Empty houses, rotting, waiting for their owners to return, cars beginning to rust, tires starting to sink into the mud, and windowsills collecting dust. There’s no signs of life anywhere, the most I’ve seen is the set of red taillights and I don’t even know how long ago that was. I’ve lost hope in searching for some sort of note, some sort of sign, something telling me what happened; I’ve accepted that there isn’t anything. I’m alone and that’s just the way it is. I need to cross that bridge; there’s nothing here for me, no one’s coming back.

Ice-cold wind whips my back and massages through my hair the very second I shove my front door open. It’s colder than the last time I left, but it’s still raining. The mud gathered at the bottom of my stairs and along the once dirt-covered streets are hard to tread through. My worn-out sneakers sink, making me slip every few seconds, but I know I can make it out. It’ll just take time. The rain falling on my face covers up the tears rolling down from my eyes. Everything outside seems brighter and clearer the farther I travel. Skies are slowly turning more blue, the fog disappears and the mud closer to the bridge is nearly dry. I’ve never crossed this bridge before.

On the other side of the bridge life is better. Few clouds cover the sapphire skies and the sun shines so bright that the forest green grass appears to be white. The grass flows and sways as if each individual blade knew the dance routine that the sun had choreographed. An army of bluebirds sail above the grass, singing them a song to dance to. Butterflies flutter over gardens of wildflowers and squirrels scurry up to the high treetops. But something holds me back. When the sun’s heat touches my face, I’ll push open my front door and cross the bridge.

I awoke this morning to claps of thunder and whistling wind slapping my windows. Neither as pleasant as the chirps of songbirds I'm used to hearing. I pull the curtains aside slowly, but still the light burns my eyes. Blinded, I can just barely see the bridge. I run out the door to cross it.

“How did I get here?”

The bridge is made of wood, it doesn’t look safe in the slightest. Cautiously, I take my first step. The bridge creaks, maiming my ears and making my head pound. Waves that seemed far underneath somehow whip the bridge, occasionally coming over and slapping my face, but the anchors tied around my ankles have come undone and once again, I can breathe.

Once I’m towards the center, the bridge begins to sway; the waves become larger and knock me down. With splintered hands and bleeding knees, getting across the bridge will take forever. Wind tosses me from side to side. Even if I hold onto the railing, it’s still too powerful. Rain pours and waves crash, leaving the bridge more and more slippery, and me less sturdy, but I know I’m close. A white butterfly soars around me, gracing my fingertips and encouraging me to follow it.

After opening my eyes, I realize I’ve made it. Just as advertised, it’s lively. Bluebirds, white butterflies, dancing grass, and shining rays of sunshine. It smells of violets, carnations, freshly fallen rain, and tree leaves. Not too far from the end of the bridge is a pond full of lily pads and croaking bullfrogs whose faces reflected off of the pellucid waters. Behind the open field breathes a forest of cherry trees. The white butterfly escorts me to it and leads me through. At the end of the cherry tree forest, darkness lingers. I’m afraid to depart from the forest and disappear into its shadows, but the butterfly insists. Though it can’t speak, I swear I hear it saying, “Take your time.” Leaning against tree closest to the darkness, I breathe slowly and think, readying myself for what’s to come.

Taking my first step, I hold my breath, close my eyes, and clench my fists. The darkness is cold, much more dreary than the cherry tree forest or the meadow of dancing grass and melodic tweets, but at the same time it’s comforting. I’ve made it. I spot some light. It shines through the darkness the same way a lighthouse would when alerting a sailor. I feel the chains of the anchors wrap around my feet again; trapped underwater, I need to get out.

I follow the light. Sprinting towards it, I leap over aerial tree roots and swat at the crows attempting to peck at my skin. Blood drips down my arms and fingers, so thick that it looks black, but the white butterfly returns and leads me to my previously unknown destination. My grave.

In Loving Memory

Alyssa Symone Silvester

January 14th, 1984- July 22nd, 2001

My confusion causes me to rub my eyes rapidly and pinch my skin the way people in movies do when they’re convinced they’re trapped in a dream. Opening my eyes, everything around me shatters. Cracking like a mirror, the darkness turns white, each shard displaying a reflection of a memory. The light threatens to swallow me in, but I run; I need answers.

While maneuvering around the mirror shards and avoiding the darkness, I feel something graze my feet and legs. The darkness stops chasing me immediately and the white butterfly leads the way. Time doesn’t exist where I am; this awkward between life and death. After walking for what feels like a few seconds, the butterfly stops and flutters, directing me to what I’m supposed to find: a cassette tape resting on a radio. Without touching it at all, the cassette speaks.

“1:48 pm, Monday, July 22nd, 2001, Sheriff Mcalear interviewing Nicholas Silvester. Can you tell me about the last time you saw Alyssa, Mr. Silvester?”

“I was leaving for work, early in the morning; didn’t wanna wake her. I guess... it’s my fault she passed.”

“Sir, it’s not your fault. We just need to know this information, because it’ll help us figure out who did it.”

“I heard the gunshot though. I didn’t even stop to look back; crime is just so common in my town. I thought to myself ‘she’s okay,’ ‘she’s home and safe,’ but I was wrong...” My father’s sobs were heavy. It was hard for me to make out what he was saying, especially when his voice muffled from, I’m assuming, him rubbing his face or covering it. “I never thought I’d lose my little girl, but I came back and she was f*****g sprawled out in the dirt. Her blonde hair dusted with that s**t and her face dripping with blood. I could see the bullet wound. Why did they kill her? Did no one even care? She was just left there to rot!” He was screaming at this point and pounding his fists onto the table.

“Sir, I’m going to need to you calm down. Breathe for a bit, okay?” It stopped there. Everything started to disappear and I finally gave into the darkness.
“I’m ready.”

The white butterfly swirls around me several times, as if it’s pulling me up and out of my own body.  At first I feel pins and needles crawling through my veins and scratching at my skin, then nothing at all. With my emptiness, I am alone and I've come to the conclusion that it’s all I'll ever be.

Author's Note

All and any suggestions greatly appreciated. If it sucks, let me know what you'd do differently, whether it be small things like word choice in one specific area or larger things like the start or end. Of course, compliments would be greatly appreciated as well. Please correct and praise.