Under the Suicide Bridge - A short story

UNDER THE SUICIDE BRIDGE

The air moves around in currents. Thick and electric. 

“You know a lot of people died here” the girl I just met says as she points to the bridge overhead. 

“Oh, yeah I know about that” I said. 

An understatement. I spent plenty of my free time exploring and researching ghosts. I knew all about the bridge they called suicide bridge. I knew about the abandoned asylum, the haunted forest. Anything in this area that had a ghost attached I knew about. 

I was lucky to be here this afternoon. My friend needed a ride so she invited me to come “hang out” under a bridge with a few other teenagers. “ hang out” was code for smoke pot. I never smoked pot and I hardly ever trespassed but the mystery of the bridge made me say yes. 

The only person I knew was the one I came with. Everyone of the other three waiting for us were strangers and looked at me with suspicion. I knew they didn’t like new people in their hidden “hang out” areas. Especially overweight frizzy haired ones with glasses that wouldn’t know the first thing about being cool. The less that know the better. I can’t stop staring at the bridge. It looks so different from the bottom up. It’s beautiful and huge. So much hidden from from the view on the road. “Are you scared” one of the boys snickers at me. “No” I say bluntly trying hard to be invisible. No not scared. Never scared. Not of alluring architecture. Not of interesting history. Definitely not of ghost stories. “Oh yeah, I bet!” He said sarcastically. I hear some of the other teens’ stifled laughter. “ sit down and stop looking around” my friend whispered to me threw her clenched teeth. I must be embarrassing her. I must be acting odd. Forgetting to act normal in my awe and excitement of finding my way under the infamous suicide bridge. I try to look cool. I try to look uninterested. That task seems easy enough considering that I’m not interested in getting to know anyone there or anything they are talking about. I start to think of the victims of the bridge. The heavy atmosphere wraps around me like a blanket and I give into the wondering loose thoughts. Lost somewhere in my mind. Somewhere else. Where I imagine the faces, and the stories, the emotions of those who have ended their  earthy journey where I am sitting. “Come on we are going” my friend startles me with her words. How long have I been somewhere else? “oh ok, ” I Gladly agree. As we leave,  I know I will never be back to this spot. I would never attempt to come here without this friend, and know, without a doubt,  I would not be invited back. I try to memorize every detail. Grab on to it all. So I can always remember this ghostly place. This haunting place I won’t forget.