(surprise! it used to be original fic. edits ahead.)

2008.

a wreckage refashioned

Who knows why you jumped off that bridge, who knows. You didn’t even wonder much until you’ve already spent a moment or two plowing through the soupy summer air of a hotly golden July afternoon as gravity pulled you home.

You drove over that little white bridge every day, with its little white sign on the right that always reminded you a little cheekily that you should keep it 65, man, 65 or you know state troopers in their maddeningly ugly brown uniforms are going to magically appear in your rearview window. You saw that sign every day and every day you made it a point to accelerate an extra ten, push the little needle up. Out of spite. It’s a stupid, stupid, pathetic middle-finger gesture that no one ever sees, but you don’t care much that it is. Stupid, stupid.

But.

You never thought much about the little white bridge itself, even if its speed limit pissed you off.

You also never thought much about the river beneath. But then again, no one did. There was never anything remarkable about it. Not a critical artery of water by any stretch of the imagination. Didn’t lead into the heart of a shimmering city. Wasn’t beautiful enough to draw the poets and the dreamers. Didn’t inspire. And there were never any children playing on its gray shores. And probably, murderers never considered chucking bodies into it, either; no cadavers washed up the next day only to be found by a hysterical local.

You had never thought about committing suicide by jumping. Offing yourself by going over. Maybe because somehow, you just knew that was exactly how it was going to go down. Your body would wash up the next day and be found by a hysterical local. And fuck, you’d rather go by spontaneous combustion than have them manhandle you into some plastic bag. Let them find nothing but ashes.

Existence was wretched, but not wretched enough.

Anyway, when you jumped, you weren't committing suicide, even if it felt like it, a little bit. Wasn't even an attempt. You were going after someone else who tried.

Yes. It was more like:

A minute after the old gray car in front of you (minding 65 and pissing you off, by the way) swerved off the bridge, your socks and shoes were off and you were standing on the edge staring darkly down at the water maybe twelve feet below.

And the way the old gray car fell, the almost graceful motion (it was a metal machine but it was a dancer’s elegant arc through air, with rubber spinning without the solidity of pavement beneath, and then there was the violently musical crush of steel against water) that is the almost dignified way that some poor fuck, either drunk or suicidal, was ending his own wretched existence - it’s a pretty and miserable and brief movie in your head.

And.

You were no hero.

It wasn’t your goddamned business.

Who knows why you jumped, who knows.

But you jumped and really, wow, whaddaya know, you jumped. You jumped. A previously secret orchestra roared to life in your ears, and so a hundred violins accompanied your madness.

And falling really was the worst sensation in the world, and air made a paltry effort to stop it, slow it, but it’s only twelve feet after all and your world soon became water all around, kind of green, and dim sunlight filtered through to gently crown your flowing hair.

love, cassie.