Preface: I wrote this a few years ago. It can be found on my link profile. Since it deals with heavy issues, I just wanted to share.
Also, for those of you unfamiliar with Seattle, the Aurora Bridge is nicknamed "Suicide Bridge" because of nine people who jumped in 1972. The troll described actually sits under Fremont Bridge, not Aurora.
Epiphany On the Aurora Bridge
There's a troll lurking under the north end of the Aurora Bridge. It glares with its hubcap eye southward at- what? The end of the bridge. All it sees are the cars that drive by it. And the people who jump.
We think we're unique, you see. A little too unique. We do this to connect with those who leapt before us; the spirits of tormented creatures, who were too skinny from anorexia, or two cut up from scars on their arms, or too sunken from insomnia for the troll to want to eat. We are… an unattractive sort. We feel ugly. The poison on the inside oozes out through our pores, our ears, our nostrils, our eye sockets, and taints us. We are the unlucky ones. No one understands us. It's hard to relate to anything when you're drowning in the poison.
I lost my mind to an abusive father when I was fourteen. He tried to beat the Gay out of me. I lost my health to a heroine dealer when I was nineteen. He tried to buy the pain from me. I lost my heart to an artist when I was twenty-three. He tried to paint the poison away from me.
He was HIV positive. And he was in my life for one euphoric instant. We were unique, you see. We were the lucky ones. We were… a beautiful sort. We felt alive. We understood.
I poisoned him. As I tainted his paintings, which adorned the walls of his hospital room as he laid there, spotted and scrawny, still trying to cure me. He was there for one euphoric instant, and then, as everything inevitably does, that moment ended. And I was still there, poisoned.
We think we're alone, you see. We do this to connect to those who leapt before us; the spirits of the ugly ones, who were too twisted to fit in.
The wind feels colder when you stand naked in the rain. And when it washes over your rubbery skin, it cannot touch the poison inside. Still, its slippery silver stings and chills. And you're ready to jump.
I give one last look around, to see if anyone wants to stop me. The road is empty. Except for her.
She's standing on the opposite side, her hair plastered to her neck and shoulders. She's facing the air, standing on the barrier of the bridge, but her head is turned, her brown eyes wide as she stares right back at me. I have seen her before. A nametag enters my mind… Julie. She was from my support group.
She was HIV positive. And she was in my life for one euphoric instant. We were unique, you see. We thought we could change the world. We were… a hideous sort. We felt dirty. We understood.
And in that moment, I stare, and I stare and I can see it; the poison leaking out of her eye sockets, the bruises left by her spouse who called her tainted, the ribs which held up her skin like an umbrella from the bulimia.
She is… an unattractive sort. She is a radiant sun.
I smile at her. She smiles back. The rain pounds the pavement. I cross the street. I stand next to her. I take her hand. We don't have to be unique.
And I thought, as the wind whipped my face on the way down, and her nails dug in tight, with a clarity that comes only in the light of a sunset… We were never unique to begin with. We are, all of us, exactly the same.
Also, for those of you unfamiliar with Seattle, the Aurora Bridge is nicknamed "Suicide Bridge" because of nine people who jumped in 1972. The troll described actually sits under Fremont Bridge, not Aurora.
Epiphany On the Aurora Bridge
There's a troll lurking under the north end of the Aurora Bridge. It glares with its hubcap eye southward at- what? The end of the bridge. All it sees are the cars that drive by it. And the people who jump.
We think we're unique, you see. A little too unique. We do this to connect with those who leapt before us; the spirits of tormented creatures, who were too skinny from anorexia, or two cut up from scars on their arms, or too sunken from insomnia for the troll to want to eat. We are… an unattractive sort. We feel ugly. The poison on the inside oozes out through our pores, our ears, our nostrils, our eye sockets, and taints us. We are the unlucky ones. No one understands us. It's hard to relate to anything when you're drowning in the poison.
I lost my mind to an abusive father when I was fourteen. He tried to beat the Gay out of me. I lost my health to a heroine dealer when I was nineteen. He tried to buy the pain from me. I lost my heart to an artist when I was twenty-three. He tried to paint the poison away from me.
He was HIV positive. And he was in my life for one euphoric instant. We were unique, you see. We were the lucky ones. We were… a beautiful sort. We felt alive. We understood.
I poisoned him. As I tainted his paintings, which adorned the walls of his hospital room as he laid there, spotted and scrawny, still trying to cure me. He was there for one euphoric instant, and then, as everything inevitably does, that moment ended. And I was still there, poisoned.
We think we're alone, you see. We do this to connect to those who leapt before us; the spirits of the ugly ones, who were too twisted to fit in.
The wind feels colder when you stand naked in the rain. And when it washes over your rubbery skin, it cannot touch the poison inside. Still, its slippery silver stings and chills. And you're ready to jump.
I give one last look around, to see if anyone wants to stop me. The road is empty. Except for her.
She's standing on the opposite side, her hair plastered to her neck and shoulders. She's facing the air, standing on the barrier of the bridge, but her head is turned, her brown eyes wide as she stares right back at me. I have seen her before. A nametag enters my mind… Julie. She was from my support group.
She was HIV positive. And she was in my life for one euphoric instant. We were unique, you see. We thought we could change the world. We were… a hideous sort. We felt dirty. We understood.
And in that moment, I stare, and I stare and I can see it; the poison leaking out of her eye sockets, the bruises left by her spouse who called her tainted, the ribs which held up her skin like an umbrella from the bulimia.
She is… an unattractive sort. She is a radiant sun.
I smile at her. She smiles back. The rain pounds the pavement. I cross the street. I stand next to her. I take her hand. We don't have to be unique.
And I thought, as the wind whipped my face on the way down, and her nails dug in tight, with a clarity that comes only in the light of a sunset… We were never unique to begin with. We are, all of us, exactly the same.