It’s cold.
Far colder than you thought it would be.
Far colder, you think, than even the weather station predicted. Of course, they don’t really check for altitude when making their guesses. The chill sinks into your skin, negating any sort of comfort your rough, thin, cheap hoodie could ever grant. You think, for a second, that you should have brought a better jacket, or a blanket, or something, but that would be counterproductive. After all, you’re here to feel once more. Your feet dangle over the edge. The city lights sparkle, far away, from a dream that you’re about to wake up from. They twinkle softly. They slowly move, signs of life faintly pulsating.
You yourself are covered in darkness, because no light would ever make its way up here. There are no lights up here because, according to the architect, and the technicians, and the dozen other occupations that make this bridge–and, in turn, the city–run, you aren’t even supposed to be up here; no one is. But no one cares that you are, either. Your mind keeps playing with that. Seeing–or pretending to see–a thousand different drones buzzing around the massive hive of the city to ensure it keeps running, even if one drone falls. You find a faded smile creeping across your face, vanishing nearly as quick as it came. Something about the idea strikes you as funny, but you don’t know anyone who would laugh at such an idea. Not down there, anyway. Is it really okay to be here, right now?
You think back to seeing the ladder. It’s in plain sight, of course, but no one pays attention to it, because it has no importance to them. And no one really walks on this bridge in this cold weather, not when they could be inside. Maybe spending time with their families, or simply working, but at least they don’t have to deal with the cold. You could be there too. You could be in bed right now, drifting off to sleep, ready to face the world tomorrow. You roll your eyes. Lies.
You look down, trying to spy the cars below. You have to strain your neck, since you’re seated towards the side of the bridge, and you’re not willing to move too much. There isn’t much space here; just enough for one person to sit. The cars go by, few and fast, lit brightly by the floodlights that dare not turn to look at you. You can faintly smell the exhaust, even from here, mixing in with the scent of the salty sea. A gust of bone-chilling wind blows by, and you quickly tighten your grip on the rough suspension cable, startled. But it’s too late. With some trepidation, but not enough, your gaze has already shifted to the abyss below your feet. Your inside churns. You don’t see anything in the void below, but you know, hundreds of feet below, the water quietly shifts. It calls. You can hear the call, uniquely placed as you are, and you don’t think anyone else can. The call is crisp, just like the air of this season. You look up to take your mind off of it.
The moon shines brightly across a painted skyscape of deepest black and white dots, though the sun today was obscured above a blanket of gray. It is a silvery-white crescent. The light is almost too bright to gaze at, and you blink heavily before looking. You’d hoped that the night would be over soon, but the moon itself is almost directly overhead, so there’s no chance of that. You see that you are actually seated almost directly above the edge of the bridge–where solid concrete falls away into midnight. You swing your legs back and forth, and get it into your head to leave some kind of proof that you were here, tonight, up on this tower where you watch over everyone else and no eyes are cast on you. You open your mouth; A transient mark for a transient world, after all. No sound comes out. No matter how hard you try, the result is still the same. Is it the silence? No, the low hum of the city and the small roar of the cars beneath say otherwise. No matter.
You raise out your hand, towards the city, on the far side of the water, seemingly towards it, paradoxically knowing you can never reach it. It shimmers behind a nonexistent wall of glass. The wind blows, and then stops, yet the air remains, colder somehow. You cannot hum or make any sort of noise; the shadows muffle you, though whether they are strangling you or simply putting a finger to your lips remains to be seen. You look to the side, along the bridge. It’s a rusted, coppery color from this angle, nothing like gold. You smile again, in the same way, wondering whatever could have possessed someone to call it so. The cable strings down from a small distance above you. It’s amazing to think that it holds up the bridge below you, while not appearing to be under much strain at all. Compared to a car, your weight is of course not much, but the weight of your thoughts….how would those compare?
You look towards the ends once again. Both shores are quite far, the buildings and whatnot on them looking like some sort of toy. It’s ironic: with toys, one can be powerful, and control the objects, making them bend to an external will. Here, the scene looks much the same, but it feels somehow reversed. You spot something odd: a bird’s nest rests on the shore. It is small, no more than a speck, but you know the sight well enough. It is quiet and still. You are quiet and still. Here, there is nothing to break the stillness. No nocturnal animals would perch up here; there is nothing for them here but a barren steel island in the sea of air.
Your hair moves as the breeze starts up again. Everything looks so big and important from down on the ground, in the city, surrounded by the big skyscrapers and the larger-than-life billboards. You feel so alien down there, walking like a ghost amongst the crowd, barely noticed, sitting in your apartment as the only source of noise and heat. Noise–the city generates it perpetually, even now, in the dead of night. Or is it the dead of morning? The sun shows no chance of appearing over the horizon anytime soon, but you feel it could be a trick played by the moon, to make the night seem eternal, the darkness invincible. How to make it end? You look back at the moon again to find it covered by clouds. Clouds that have crept in whilst you were unawares, assassins in the dark, here not to kill, but to hide.
A drop of water falls on your face. Then another. The water, like everything else, is chilly, but you already expected it to be. Not everything is warm, after all, even if you fervently desire with all your will and heart for warmth. It will take more than your will to change the way of the world, no matter what time you are in. The wetness seeps through your hoodie, then through your shirt, and eventually, after a while, you are drenched. Normally this would feel uncomfortable, but an observer never really cares about their own discomfort and hardship, do they? You close your eyes and sit for a while, feeling. Feeling the cold. Feeling the wet. Feeling the pressure of the rain. Feeling the hard metal on which you sit. Feeling the rough, massive cord against which your head leans. Feeling those feelings inside, that you have never been able to express. Not even now, to the wind and the rain and the shadows and the nobody.
You notice less pressure on your shoulders. The rain slows, and it is far, far colder than before. It slows more, and keeps slowing. You feel less and less of a weight on your back, and your eyes open, as if from sleep–but of course sleep has not come for a while. You feel, somehow, the need to stand. Your muscles are sore and stiff, your body is seizing up, complaining about having to move again. You swear you even hear something creak at least once. But you rise, carefully–you still remember where you are, thankfully.
You look at the city again, surprised to see the picturesque scene. It is snowing now. Everything you looked at before seems softer, muted, but much more beautiful. The city no longer screams, though it is just as bright as before. Normally, by now you’d have long since returned to your apartment, but you remember everything has been taken care of. The smile plays across your face again. You take it all in one last time–the sights, the sounds, the memories playing beneath the surface, the textures, the smells, the feelings locked firmly up–as a sort of goodbye to the place. You know already that you will not be returning. You turn towards the bridge, directly to the ladder, let go of the rope, and everything else, and, as easy as a swimmer pushing off into a pool, tip and fall, backwards, over the edge of the bridge.