Past Scars

His hands clasped cold metal with a grip like death’s. His drunken gaze registered the pitch black ocean below him. The world twisted and turned before his eyes. So he did the only thing he could. He drew a brushed steel flask from his coat and raised it to his lips. Alcohol scorched his throat as he took two long swallow’s. He returned the flask to its place in his coat. Red gold droplets of liqueur splashed out from the open mouth and stained his white shirt.

He stepped away from the railing and looked about him. A thin mist had settled along the bridge making it was impossible to see more than a hundred yards in either direction. Yet it wasn’t the mist which made his knees tremble, but that he was utterly alone.

Since the moment he placed his foot upon the bridge, he had yet to see a single person. A few times he had heard voices, calling from the mists. He tried to locate the origin of the voices but after what seemed like days of running, he never reached them. He had grown to distrust the voices. One thing however, never failed to disappoint him. The flask in his inner coat pocket.

No matter how much he drank, or how quickly he gulped down the burning liquid, there was always more. It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, but now he regretted it. During a heavily drunken stupor, he became disoriented and forgot which direction he had traveled.

Now he spent his days leaning over the railing, watching the black waves hundreds of feet below him. His mind contemplated whether he should take the leap or not. He had climbed up to the third pole multiple times, but never had the courage to finalize his decision. He didn’t enjoy the endless adventure into the mists but at least he had some semblance of control. If he jumped, he was giving it all up and he couldn’t. At least, not yet he couldn’t.

The voices began echoing all around him.

“I miss you! Come back to me!” “I thought we were friends?”
“Don’t worry, I will come back.”
“Why can’t you just open up for once?”

He knew trying to cover his ears was a futile action. Instead he collapsed to the ground and ran his hand through his hair. Each voice brought up an onslaught of feelings and memories. He doubled over as an imaginary knife cut through him. No blood spilled from his wound, but he knew if he tore off his shirt, he would see a white mangled scar in the exact location. If only he could make it stop. If only he could stop the pain.