On The Bridge (9 page)

Her story had helped cutters quit their blades and some self-mutilators turned to therapy on her advice, which made her feel like she was making a difference. Suicide Queen’s screen blinked again, and this time she was wide awake and excited to hear from Icarus and any new developments on his front, but she was disappointed to find no messages from him today. There were four unread messages from her other contacts, people she hardly spoke to, save for when things get a bit too much and their names in her message box was an omen of something new she had obviously not heard about in her sheltered world.

First she read an archived message, she had not seen before checking her older unread messages and she was surprised that she missed this one when it was sent. It came from King Midas, one of her long-time pals, who would spend hours online with her in the dead of night when she thought she was going to fall to pieces. In all honesty, Krista may well have had a crush on King Midas, another course of denial she would implement when confronted with her jumping heart at the sight of his name on her screen. His messages always came first. Again she sipped at her strawberry milk and turned on her relaxing music before she opened his message.

“Dear Suicide Queen…” she smiled and licked her lips, “I’m going to be offline, so don’t worry if my profile is inactive. I am planning a very nice business trip. I have received an offer I can’t resist, so to speak, and I can’t let this chance go by. And no, it’s not just the money. I know that‘s what you are thinking! Ha-ha.”

“Oh it’s always the money, honey,” Krista chuckled, reading the rest quickly, as she was eager to get through her other messages before getting ready for work.

“And I will think of you when I get there! Stay sweet! Rory.”

“I’m always sweet, Rory,” she said out loud as the jazz poured a shiver of amour over her.

“Next?” She opened a message from Cutty P. and scanned over the message. Her heart stopped.

“Krista, remember the guy who walked into traffic a while back? They checked his laptop as part of the investigation, trying to find out why he did it and what happened to him before he did it and they found his website history, hon. His sign-in was King Midas on this site. Krista, it was Rory! Rory is the guy who killed himself on that bridge!”

She could read no further as she felt the bile push up from her stomach. Krista sprinted around the corner of her bedroom and scarcely made it to the bathroom. Her tears came as she ran and she fell on her knees in front of the toilet bowel, puking profusely as she screamed through her tears, cursing and clutching at her flesh, wailing as her ribs convulsed.

His words swam through her like a sea of pain.

“You’re going to be offline, huh?” she screamed, sucking her breath in large gasps of hysteria.

“You will think of me when you get there? You heartless son of a bitch!”

She took a razor from her bathroom basket and started slashing her thighs, strip after red strip as she screamed his words back to him in utter despair and unbridled rage. Like a recitation of doom, a prayer of disdain, Krista called out his name repeatedly as she quoted his message to her over and over, one by one laying the lashes deep into her skin and bleeding onto the floor until she was too exhausted to lift her arm one more time.

Brick walls ran along long walkways of cement and formed a complicated architectural maze which corralled hundreds of children along to their respective classes. Arches stood as portals between the different buildings and some of them were decorated with ivy and other crawlers, courtesy of Mother Nature, while below their silent presence young minds moved to be educated. The old school was very stately and strict, but for those who spent their days there it had become a second home. It was more than an institution, it was a gathering place for personalities and problems to be solved, forging friendships and promoting social interaction between all middle class kids.

The bell had gone and soon after the squirming worms of scuttling bodies rushing for their classes had subsided and dissipated to fractions as the last of them disappeared into their rooms. It left the quad deserted, like an abandoned ghost town of concrete and giant potted plants. It was English period and Doug sat opposite Mick and Thompson, who shared a desk on the other side of the aisle where they could ogle the sublime features of Miss Grace’s body fully from both sides of her walkway.

“I don’t have time to copy it,” Thompson said about the movie he was trying to get from Doug, “My mum is on my ass about the porn thing she found on my drive and now I am not allowed to use the fucking computer, man.” Thompson had never mastered the art of the whisper properly and attracted the unwanted attention of Christie and her two friends in the desk behind them inadvertently.

The girls giggled and made disgusted faces at discovering this juicy tidbit of gossip, but Doug simply flipped his middle finger at them and the boys resumed their banter. Mick chewed on a piece of salted dried meat he could not finish by the end of break, but was eagerly sniggering at the conundrum his friends were discussing.

“I can’t do it. Let Mick do it. It’s not like you will die waiting another week for it,” Doug frowned at his whiny pal.

“Hell no, I am halfway through Battlefield 1942 and I shall be unavailable for any shenanigans pertaining to your shite until further notice,” Mick mumbled in his best Scottish accent, mocking Thompson’s plight with his unusual vocabulary. It made Doug laugh, but Thompson was not impressed. He punched Mick on the arm and knew it was futile to pursue the matter any further.

“Settle down now,” their teacher ordered. Miss Grace never had to raise her voice in class like other teachers did. Her body language held its own authority and her husky voice automatically quieted down a class, if only for their desire to listen to it. She could recite the second chapter of Exodus or the Declaration of American Independence if she so wished, and they would listen intently. It never mattered what she said, as long as she said it in her surly deep way. “Icarus,” she announced, “Today we are going to present our reviews, right?”

The class sighed in misery and she clapped her hands together only once. “Right?”

“Yes, Miss Grace,” they all replied in their own time.

“Alright, people, we are going to go alphabetically, and I want you each to come to the front and read out loud your opinion, your review of the ‘Flight of Icarus’ to the class.

“Maybe Thompson has the X-rated version for us,” Christie smiled and a whole bunch of kids found it hilarious. Thompson merely gave her a dirty look and turned to face Miss Grace.

One by one they stood up and presented their homework on the book. Miss Grace asked questions about the morals and principles, as well as the literary value of the metaphor and the underlying lessons therein. It was a nightmare for the boys. Who cares why the writer used what similes and all that? What was important to them, was that it was a cool story filled with action, and Miss Grace was the appealing provider.

Next period was the last of the day and Mick and Thompson had Geography, so they agreed to meet up after school. Doug had an empty period before the day’s end, because Mrs Crowley did not show up today. After all the pupils had gone he stayed behind in Miss Grace’s class and kept her company while she sorted papers for the coming examinations.

Without thinking much on it, Doug made small talk while he swept the classroom for her.

“I am so tired,” she sighed and took a sip of Coca Cola from a can. “Insomnia is a torment you should hope never to experience, Doug.”

“Oh, I know all about it, Miss Grace,” he replied as he started the second row. “I hardly ever sleep anymore, thanks to my daily torture.”

She put the can down and looked over the top frame of her glasses.

“Your … ’daily torture’ …” she said, interested by the odd choice of words. “What do you mean?”

“Have you ever had nightmares?” Doug asked without looking up.

“Yes, when I was a child,” Miss Grace answered. Briefly she looked up at the ceiling, recalling some grisly ones she had endured after her grandmother passed away.

Doug paused for a while and felt the need to ask anyway, “What about recurring nightmares? Ever had those, Miss?”

“No,” she replied, thankful that she did not have to relive any of them even once.

He nodded in acknowledgement, clearly in deep thought with only the sound of birds singing outside and the hissing sound of the broom’s brush on the floor.

Then he suddenly asked, “What about hallucinations?” His voice came quick and mildly urgent. The question perplexed Miss Grace, waking a worry in her which prompted her to probe deeper, because children Doug’s age normally would not know about hallucinations and such. There was much sincerity in his voice. Grace shifted in her seat, careful to approach the subject with sensitivity and not run the risk of him closing up should she ask the wrong way. She cleared her voice.

“Doug, are you having hallucinations?” his teacher asked, folding her hands on the table before her, hoping her question sounded
“cool”
enough not to raise suspicion that she was worried.

“No,” he replied, still not making eye contact, “but I know someone who does.”

He could not admit it to her, because she was an authority figure and therefore would perhaps tell other adults to help. That was something Doug did not welcome.

“Well, if I knew someone who suffered from hallucinations I would certainly advise that person to go and see a doctor immediately, you know?” she said nonchalantly, knowing perfectly well the
“someone I know”
scenario usually served as a shield for shame. “It’s not healthy to hallucinate. It is usually the first sign that you are losing it, you know? I have had many close calls myself when I was too stressed.”

“What do you mean by ‘losing it’, Miss? Doug asked, his intrigue woken by her choice of words.

“Because,” his teacher replied, “you can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy, real or unreal. It is quite frightening, I think, not being able to discern between the two.”

And then he came to the most important question which had haunted him. “Is there a cure for that?” he asked and hoped she would know the answer readily to sate his curiosity.

Miss Grace looked out the window and sighed again, while her pupil waited with bated breath on her wisdom, completely forgetting to sweep.

“It can be controlled,” she answered and looked at him with her cat-like eyes, “but as far as I know there is no cure for it. ‘Cure’ would imply that the illness causing the hallucination had vanished. But ‘control’ means it would simply stop affecting one’s life,” said
Miss Grace, once again rolling her words in that appealing way which always sent him into a fantasy. Their eyes were locked and Doug felt a jolt going through him again as it always did when she spoke directly to him.

His sexy English teacher always made him forget about his nightmarish ordeals and put his demons to sleep. In his eyes, she was indeed a goddess of pleasure, a beacon of happiness, representing all the good things he craved. The smitten boy could not help but entertain a smile which stretched over his face involuntarily, even while they were discussing such a serious topic that been directly affecting him, afflicting him with its dangers. The thought took his smile from him.

“How sure are you that it cannot be cured, then, Miss Grace?” Doug asked politely, not particularly partial to the idea of being doomed to being a mental patient for the rest of his life.

She looked out the window again with some measure of annoyance.  She did not like having her opinion challenged like this.

“I’m not sure, Doug, being a humble English teacher and not exactly an authority on anything psychological. You should ask Mr Green, your biology teacher instead,” she said abruptly and folded her arms with another deep sigh.

“I will,” Doug lied. He did not want to start raising suspicions about his mental state, nor did he want to antagonize the woman of his dreams either.

Miss Grace picked up on his sudden retreat and composed herself. After all he was only a pupil, searching for answers he probably could not get elsewhere.

“Anything else?” his teacher asked with a friendly smile, recharging his mood slightly.

He had done sweeping her class and the bell was soon to go for the end of school day.

“No, thanks, Miss Grace,” he forced a smile.

Doug stood ready to leave the class. Then he thought to ask another question which was bothering him immensely and he turned to look at his English teacher one more time. It was a look of contemplation, but it was a question which unsettled her. 

“Miss Grace?” he asked and she raised an eyebrow to acknowledge him, “Why do people commit suicide?”

“What?” the teacher asked quickly. She was not expecting that question. Deepening with concern, her brow wrinkled above her widening eyes and she knew that this was not just a fanciful way to engage her. This was real. Doug saw her expression changing and he immediately felt uneasy about revealing his thoughts, hoping she would not think that he was “losing it.”

Miss Grace took her time to formulate an answer.

“I see you are still traumatised by that tragic incident on the bridge?” she asked, playing it calmly. Doug was relieved that he had that event to support his question.

“Yes, Miss! It frightens me that a bright and successful man like that would kill himself,” he replied with open honesty. His face twisted in sorrow and a twinge of innocent panic. “Is it that terrible being a grown-up? Is it that bad to deal with life as an adult, becoming one?” he asked with a strongly concerned expression on his face, almost as if he was calling out for help.

She had to counter this promptly.

“No!” she exclaimed with a desperate smile. “Look! I am happy, right? Your parents are happy,” she said, hoping that things at home were cordial. “I mean, how many grown-ups do you know who have killed themselves, hey?” she said, adding a cheerful tone to her argument.

He gave it some thought.

“None, apart from that man,” Doug reported and his teacher nodded instantly in a reassuring way. In his heart he was relieved that his parents would not suddenly disappear from this earth in such a way.

“Let it go, Doug,” she chirped and winked at him. “These heavy worries in your head are just too much for a bright young man like you,” she said, using the compliment to make him feel better. “Do what other kids like you are doing,” his teacher begged finally.

“Like what?” Doug asked with a twinkling smile, imagining kissing his sexy English teacher again. After all, that what kids like him were doing. Miss Grace surely was a brainy teacher.

He stared at the stunning smiling woman and wondered if she had any idea what he was thinking.

“Hello Doug,” his head was suddenly assaulted by the sound of that deep, muscular voice, approaching him.

“Vince,” he thought. And it was indeed the insufferable Vince, Miss Grace’s fiancée.
“Fuck”
Doug cussed in his head, but he managed to keep his cool and not voice his disgust.

“Hi,” he replied, meekly waving his right hand at the asshole with the muscles. Vince was nicer to him today and Doug didn’t know why. Maybe today was his payday or he had something up his sleeve, nevertheless, it was an opportune time to leave.

To escape the torture of watching the couple kissing, Doug quickly said goodbye to Miss Grace with a friendly nod and got the hell out of there before the bell went. Behind his back he could feel them kissing. It was always a short welcome kiss between the two of them, but for Doug it always lasted way too long.