The Skybridge

         Ebony dress shoes clicked upon a marble surface, after ascending a winding staircase that had seemed capable of leading him to the heavens. The man wore a stylish white suit, trimmed in black suede and complimented with a fedora that hid his face in a weary shadow. He raised his head coolly, confronted with a wall of fine mist. His face wore nothing at all, but was rather a depthless puddle; formed from the waters of his eyes and containing inanimate features that appeared on its surface like desert islands. But his eyes were peculiarly lightened, and indeed: there was an air in his step. He stretched his arm, acting as though he might claw at the misty barrier, but instead abruptly slashed through the fog with the side of his hand. He passed through it as it cleared. Vapor flew at him in protest and condensed in his short, scruffy hair. It chilled his body. He rubbed his face with one hand, and opened his eyes to a curious phenomenon.
         A soft, almost ghostly shade of pink tinted the dream-like vista. A glass path rose before him, a translucent rosy color. He then discerned it to be a bridge. Exquisite, he thought dully, and at the same time, wonderingly. Elegant. He looked around blandly—a picturesque beauty that would have stolen the breath of lesser men than him had hardly an effect on him. A bridge in the sky? He pondered to where it might lead. The structure seemed to dance as the sweet, pure mist and clouds swirled grandly and without destination. Colors of an equatorial sunset flooded the sky, though no sun could be detected at the moment. The clouds were alight with ominous violets and striking pinks and blues. Beautiful, charcoal birds soared beneath the crowds that littered the bridge, not knowing of their observers. Occasionally one would climb higher and circle among the people. Small children shrieked with delight at such sights, pointing. Young and old couples strolled hand in hand, gazing at the sky, gazing at each other. Photographers sat on marble benches, some people-watching or snapping photos, others fiddling with their expensive toys. A young violinist played near the railing, hoping for a generous donor, and lovers slow danced to his admirable melodies and descants. Further down the bridge, tinkling music from a grand piano wafted towards him like a friendly aroma. An old-fashioned, fantasy-like aura encompassed the place.
          The unnoticed newcomer gazed upon the scene with curiosity, yet disinterest. He may have imagined that he dreamt, though he thought he remembered waking. Well, and that’s no matter now, the man thought to himself. His eyes glanced down of their own accord to see a pile of various footwear next to the door. He stepped on the heels of his shoes and left them sitting with the others. He padded forward until he reached the height of the bridge’s arch. The crowds passed him by; without notice, without even a look at this man wrapped in his own despondency. He was invisible—to the people, to himself, to God. With that last thought he approached the bridge’s edge, his face crinkling. Looking down, there was nothing but clouds. A perfect, endless sky. His perfectly endless disparity. But he could end it. That, at least, was in his power. An infinite freefall was favorable to bracing himself against the world. Wasn’t it? What’s the point in living without something to livefor? Besides, he had already convinced himself that it was for the best. He was a strainer: what was once a strong, even noble bowl, had gained holes just by being. Just from the natural course of everything on Earth. Try as he might to scoop up what was left over, it would inevitably drain through. It was self destruction, yet what could he do? His muscles tensed and his head bowed in his intense anger and frustration.
         “Anybody!” the man bellowed unexpectedly into the expanse of atmosphere. Even as it reverberated through the air, the individuals around him paid no mind. He wilted and spoke weakly, “please…” There was hope beyond hope that the Lord would still hear his heart’s cry, but he was ready to break. Doubt coursed powerfully through his veins, and it only fueled him. He cupped his hands around his mouth and his chest ballooned as he inhaled. His lamentation shook the earth. “Give me a way!”
         But no one answered, not even an echo. The people on the bridge sat by him, walked past him. They paid no attention. Did they know? Did they know the world was falling to pieces? Could they even hear his foolish pleas? The lovers, the laughs, the music. Everything passed him in a blur. It was too much—it was simply too much to bear. He felt the air stir up around him, whipping his coat tail and knocking the hat from his head. With windswept hair, frenzied eyes, a face distorted with desperation, and hands gripping the railing as if it supported his life, he truly appeared mad. But all at once the hurricane went still.
          He gazed, dumb and confused, into the sky, and saw nothing. The beauty had left with the painted clouds; there was nothing but bleakness before him. Looking down, miles and miles down, he saw a churching, wild beast, uncovered by the wind. The ferocity of the waters stunned him into an almost restful state of mind.
         Not taking his eyes from the stormy ocean below, he scrambled hurriedly onto the railing, gripping a short post for balance. Then, steadily, the man released it and lifted himself into a standing position.
         He had complete composure, complete serenity within his mind. He was no longer terrified or angry or hurt. His face relaxed and he stared with confidence into the steely water, crashing in on itself over and over. Despite everything, in this single moment at the end of his life, he was invincible. He commanded the waves and the clouds; he conducted their symphonies. The crowd behind him was nonexistent, and neither this world, nor heaven, nor hell was his master. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Smiled. In a momentary spur of power he leapt off the ledge, wailing with the thrill of it, laughing with joy.
         As his body tumbled like a rag doll through the sky, a large, red sun burst forth and lit the world afire. His breath caught at the awe-inspiring sight. His head was suddenly blank, filled with the sound of rushing air in his ears, and of the ocean below, along with the single notion that he had found contentment. Here, in these clouds died the color of blood. Second thoughts are pointless, he told himself, but the reality of the words hit him hard. One other thought leaked through, and penetrated his very pores: might he have been hasty?
          Then, as much as he tried to stop it, faith began replacing the doubt he had experienced earlier. Frantically whirling now, kicking his arms and legs fruitlessly, he plunged into the abyss that was once thought of as his escape. Chains seemed to snake around him, choking him with wretchedness as the bitterly cool water flooded his lungs. He struggled, but the waves kept him under, and his enlarged pride kept him from acknowledging what he craved: a new beginning.
         The imagined shackles squeezed his body until he felt as if he might implode. The chains tore at his resolve until he finally decided that he would not put up a fight anymore, especially when it was against his own decision. He drifted downward in suspended animation; and as the light dispersed, so went his consciousness.
         He never thought, in those last moments, that he held the lock’s key in the palm of his hand.