The Bridge

Have a thousand years passed or only a hundred? I can no longer tell. I’ve given up the illusion of time. There is only the present, and I have come to realize that there has only ever been the present.

I do not remember my name, or if I have ever had one for that matter. Although in another life, I almost certainly did. Everyone has a name. Everyone has a face and a story; a past and a dream. I am not like them, for I have none of this. I've only the present. There is also the Emptiness, but that is not for me to have, because I belong to it.

Here comes another. Finally, I was beginning to worry. He is tall and elegantly dressed. He checks his watch and waits under the shadow of the bridge with his hands clasp behind him. His face betrays nothing as he lingers.

I wonder what she told him. She never tells the same lie twice in a row, although she will cycle through her favorite tricks quite often. By his impatience and the way he smirks, I suppose she promised herself to him. She uses this deception on only a select few. I believe she takes it as a personal victory when they come; a notch in her belt, so to speak.

He begins to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet, obviously anxious to claim his prize. The ill-fated gentleman walks out from under the bridge, the edge of his moonlight shadow just touching that of the ancient bridge. I see my opportunity, and I almost missed it by musing on the situation at hand. I slink toward the man in the three piece suit, and through the darkness of his shadow, I attach myself to him.

This is how I learn. It is how I come to know the year and the current state of things. It is also how I come to know the hearts of my men.

Ah, he is a fine one. His face is fresh and beautiful, but his heart is black. It has been corrupted by the shine of gold and the pleasure of unholy joys. I see why she chose him. He is perfect.

I see her, my little assistant, in his mind’s eye. My, she is lovely tonight. This poor wretch did not stand a chance against her charms. Her skin is so pale, like moonlight on still water, and her eyes are a deep vibrant blue. She is wearing a black dress which sparkles as she moves, and she does so like a cat. He sees a feline’s grace and poise, but I know better. I see a predator’s cunning and ferocity as she approaches her hapless prey.

As she sits at his table, she turns her chair around so she is facing him. A leg appears from a lengthy slit in her skirt as she crosses one knee over the other. He has some very wicked thoughts concerning that flawless leg. The dark recesses of his mind would make a living woman shudder.

She brushes her hair from her eyes before she speaks. He hears only half of what she says, so concerned with her plunging neckline and her crimson hair that he is. He is imagining what her hair smells like, and what it would feel like between his fingers. His fantasies cloud his judgment. She leans forward as she continues to woo him with silken words and hasty promises. It does not take long.

He stands to leave, and gives her a knowing smile before he walks out of the crowded party. He leaves the sophistication and class of his high-rise life, to meet with a mesmerizing stranger beneath a country bridge. Her perfume lingers on his coat as he checks his watch for the last time.

He is utterly unaware of my presence. They always are, until it is too late to matter. He shivers despite the summer’s heat as I wrap myself around his heart. I feel it begin to beat a little faster enveloped in my embrace. This is why I exist. I know no other reason and no other way.

He grasps at his chest as I begin my assault. He struggles to breathe, and his eyes grow wide with confusion and fear. As his life ebbs away, I savor every moment. His soul is bitter and coarse, but it satisfies the Emptiness as well as any other. He sinks to the ground in an ungraceful pile, and there are scratch marks above his heart, as if he literally tried to rip me from his chest. Perhaps he did.

I return to the vast shadow of my bridge. The Emptiness is content, for the moment. I do not know how long it will stay so, for I have no sense of time. I can only track my existence by the number of souls I have taken, although I do not know how often I do so. Maybe once a year, once a month, or perhaps even more often than this, I do not know. I feed the Emptiness when it calls, however often that may be.

He was what they call a tourist, obviously. Otherwise, he would not have come here so willingly. Eventually, someone will find him here. The authorities will come and shake their heads, wishing they could have forewarned him away from this place. The locals know me, or at least they know something. They have come to associate this place with death.

I believe I was a woman, once. I am not sure from where this feeling originates, but it feels right. Therefore, I hold to it. Sometimes I like to think I used to be a princess or a queen, or maybe an empress. I want to think I was someone with a home, a family, and a purpose, that I was loved.

Unfortunately, all I know for sure is what I am now. The present holds me, and I am trapped in a never-ending cycle of existence. I can ponder and speculate, but in truth I know nothing. I am aware, but I am not alive.