Date: Sun, 1 Feb 1998 13:26:18 -0500 From: Words from the Monastery Subject: SUB: VDC: The Bridge (short story) THE END IS HERE! Thanks to everyone who submitted ... I'll get a list to the list soon ... ;) The 1998 WRITERs' Valentine's Day Contest Remember, save your critiques please and send you entries to Michelle and me not the list for entry into the contest. ***** The Bridge She loves me, She loves me not. She loves me, She loves me not. . . Bitch. It was the sort of mist that turns even the most mundane streetscape into the surrealistic nightmares of a demented artist. Michelos waited. The warehouses on the far bank were barely visible, but that was OK. He could see the bridge, their bridge. It was OK. He'd planned it. Everything would work out. She'd come . . . eventually. She always did. Whore. The pigeon fluttered weakly against his hand. His grip tightened. She loves me, She loves me not. She loves me, She loves me not. . . The feathers bothered him. They were untidy. Maybe he'd better pick them up, put them in his pocket until later. She'd be pleased about that. She was always very fussy about neatness, always very particular. Footsteps. On the bridge. Michelos peered through the mist. It's not her. Why did they stop? This was his bridge. He waited. Voices. Why don't they move? A man and a woman. Smoking. On his bridge. Why are they smoking on his bridge? He didn't want to kill them. Not tonight, not while he was waiting for her. She'd asked him not to do it again and he'd promised, and now they were spoiling it. He waited, watching. She loves me, She loves me not. She loves me, She loves me not. . . They moved off. Michelos ran onto the bridge and kicked the offending cigarette butts into the river. Tidy. She'd like that. It was getting colder. He moved back to his hiding place, his blanket pulled tight around his thin frame. Why do hospitals always use grey blankets? He'd asked for a blue one, but they always gave him grey. It wasn't much to ask for, one blue blanket. She knew why. Satan would have told her. People always told her stuff. She knew she was going there. Funny how you know, isn't it, after spending all of your life wondering. But she knew, she'd told him. She didn't deserve it. She was a good woman. She didn't deserve that. He'd brought some roses. They didn't let him have money but he'd seen them in a vase at the hospital. She liked roses. He was sorry that they weren't wrapped, in bright crinkly cellophane the way a florist would wrap them, but they were still roses. You have to have roses on Valentines Day. He heard her laughter in the distance. He was nervous now. Always nervous when the time came. Sometimes they found him before she came and then he couldn't help her. But he'd prayed - told her to go to a different bridge. Now she was coming. He watched as she stepped onto the bridge. She had someone with her again. A drunk, pawing at her. They stopped. He was trying to open her blouse. Michelos watched. Her skirt, what there was of it was bunched around her waist. He walked onto the bridge. They wouldn't let him have a knife. Even his food was served with a plastic spoon, but he knew that God would help him. God wouldn't let him down. God knew that you can't fight Satan without some sort of weapon. He'd prayed every night until God showed him the way. He was coming back from the shower room when he saw the meal trolley in the corridor. It was only a dinner knife but he was patient, and he had the time. It was sharp enough tonight. They didn't see him approaching. The drunk had her against the rail, his trousers around his ankles. He hated killing the drunks. They could still be saved. They were misguided, they'd chosen the wrong path, but Jesus could still have saved them. But he had to kill them. They didn't understand that he was doing this because he loved her. They didn't know about Satan. The drunk didn't know what was happening until the knife was in his neck. Michelos twisted it, sawing it back and forth, until the blood started to pump out across his shoulders. She screamed. She always screamed. It was almost as if she didn't know that he was doing it for her. "I brought you some roses." She tried to run. He caught her by the hair. "I brought you some roses for Valentines," he shouted. "Look." He held them up for her to see, before dropping them onto the bridge. She clawed at him. She was blonde tonight. A blonde slut, about 19 years old. He pushed the knife into her throat and held her as her life slowly soaked into his blanket. He didn't shed any tears. He knew that she'd be back again. And again. He pushed the bodies into the water, then leaned on the bridge railing, staring into the mist. The pigeon moved in his pocket. He took it out. It had one wing feather left. He plucked it and let it float down to the water. She loves me.