I Chose to Die (Siren Suicides, Book 1)

Chapter 4. Aurora Bridge

"Mom? I wish you were here," I say. "Come back. Why won't you come back? What did I do wrong? Why did you do it? Why did you leave me?" Questions fly out of my mouth on autopilot, the same questions I've been asking since I was ten; they're stuck in my mind the same way I first asked them, flooding me with helplessness and rage.

I look along the bridge, hating the engineers who came up with the idea of building it. Hating its metal guts, its height, and the fact that it has become Seattle's most popular attraction for suicide jumpers.

I can almost picture a colorful brochure for tourists with a printed advertisement, still smelling of fresh ink.

Experience the Aurora Bridge like never before! Fifty deaths over the past decade! Only second behind San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge! We offer unprecedented fatality rates at ninety-eight percent! Choose your style. Would you like to flail your arms as you go? Feel free. Care to slip on the railing and tumble down in a series of somersaults? We've got that covered. Want to call someone dear and say goodbye? Open the yellow phone box and discover the miracle of free calling in an age when those who are dear to you can't hear you, and those who can, don't care. It takes a stranger to lend a hand. That is, if they can make out your last words over the noise of passing traffic.

Did we mention that all of the above is completely and utterly FREE?

The word FREE flashes in front of my eyes in bright red. I'm like a bull, tormented and provoked into charging. I begin repeatedly slamming my hands into the railing, pouring my anger into every hit, harder, until my hands feel like two swollen bruises. I stop and curl my fingers into fists, shaking them at the bridge. Magnificent, it spans over the lake in one concrete stroke, solid and high, oblivious to my outburst.

"You stupid thing, I wish you were never built!"

I slam both fists against it one last time and yelp in pain. Tears stream freely down my cheeks, mixing with rain. Steam rises from my mouth with every breath. Fury seems to have warmed me up a bit and I don't shake as much. Propelled by the need to do anything but stand in one place and freeze, I run toward the middle of the bridge, hoping for something, looking for something close to a miracle. I want to see a white nightgown and my mother's long hair brushing the wavy pattern of its collar frills. I hope for a glimpse of some kind of answer—anything at all. And I get it. Three honks from the opposite lane, going north. I stifle a cry.

My father's Maserati Quattroporte slows down enough for me to see him gesticulate from behind the steering wheel, and then speed up again, clearly with the intent of crossing the bridge, turning around, and picking me up from where I stand, even if he has to stop traffic. Which he will, if it comes to it. I calculate. Three minutes left to either run all the way across the bridge and hide behind the Fremont Troll or even make it to Hunter's house on Linden Avenue. His mother should be at the hospital this week for chemo. He'll let me in for sure, maybe even let me stay for a while. I totally lost track of time; I could've been on the other side by now. Stupid!

I hit my head hard to make sure I remember this next time and take off. Yet, at my first step, energy drains out of me; probably because I didn't eat, didn't sleep, smoked several joints, and took a tab of acid on top of it. My legs feel heavy and a rush of dizziness sways me. At first, nothing happens. Then, a sharp pain shoots up my leg and I crouch down, yowling. A shiver takes over me. Weeping in earnest, I force myself to stand and continue to move at a snail's pace, wincing at every step, afraid to look down and discover that I'm bleeding.

Someone emerges from the stairs on the north side of the bridge and walks toward me with the familiar gait of a sailor. Except this is no sailor. It's Hunter, dressed in his favorite droopy jeans and blue rain jacket, hood over his head, eyes set deeply in the shadows of his face, looking menacing yet comical at the same time. He waves, pauses as if observing my state, and breaks into a run.