Extra Credit: Beginning of "Girl on Bridge" 11-14-08

[dr_mabeuse]

If anyone's interested in reading the start to "The Girl on the Bridge", here it is, but it's strictly extra credit, because, as i said, it needs work. It meanders, breaks character, and has a host of problems

The Girl on the Bridge (Beginning)
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"You're going to drown yourself? Is that the idea?"

She looked back at me, startled. Big eyes in the spotlights from below the bridge, long red hair, the lights of the city behind her. She had a beautiful face, hurt. Of course she looked hurt. She was about to throw herself into the Chicago River at 2 AM so she'd better look hurt. The river was about thirty feet below her, a freezing black ribbon in the drifting snow. The fall wouldn't kill her but the cold would.

"Fuck off," she said.

She'd climbed over the railing and stood on the edge of the bridge facing the river, hidden in the shadow cast by the old bridge house. She was wearing very nice shoes: smart; two inch heels, expensive. They just fit on the steel lip of the old bridge. The hem of her slacks was perfect, came up to mid-heel. The girl had money.

There are floodlights on the river bank here, shining up, and if she jumped, she'd be visible for just an instant in their glare before she fell into the darkness and disappeared into the water. She was holding onto the railing with both hands, being stubborn. Stubborn about not letting go and stubborn about not coming back. She had on a long coat, and around her neck were a lot of billowy scarves. I imagined she must have been at one of the discos in River North.

"Go on," she said again. "Leave me alone!"

I considered that. I was a little drunk myself and didn't care either. "Then go ahead. Don't let me stop you."

Killing yourself is one thing. Letting someone see you die is quite another, and we both knew I wouldn't be able to watch her sink under the freezing water without doing something about it. She'd be struggling and splashing in that long coat with those scarves all wet around her. It would be ugly.

I was filled with anger over something else and I guess I directed it at her. She must have felt the anger from me, that coldness, the fact that I really didn't give a fuck, because I scared her. I could tell I scared her. I wasn't who she'd wanted to come along and find her in her suicide attempt and she didn't know what to do. She tired to ignore me. Standing there on the edge of the bridge with the wind tearing at her scarves, she tried to ignore me.

I extracted the half-pint from my pocket and handed it to her. "Drink?"

"Fuck off, I said." She looked scared now.

A cab passed by, but she was in the shadows and he couldn't see her. He probably saw me, standing by the railing leaning into the wind, but he couldn't see who I was talking to.

"I'm not going to save you." I opened the bottle and looked at her. "I'm really not. Do you want me to? Is there someone you're trying to impress? Better tell me now."

"Get the fuck away from me!"

"I'll tell them you yelled, 'I love you, Bill!' when you jumped."

I took a drink and she pulled herself tighter against the rail of the bridge.

"Do you know a Bill?" I asked.

She didn't say anything.

"Everyone's going to think you did."

"I said get away from me!"

"Jump!"

"Fucker!"

"Jump!!" I leaned over the railing and shouted at her, scaring her and she started to cry.

"Pussy!" I yelled. "Goddamn coward!"

"What's wrong with you?" she shouted back. "Why are you so fucking mean? You don't even know me!"

"I know that you're too scared to do it. I'm not though. Want to see?"

I threw one leg over the rail and reached with my toe for the edge of the bridge on the other side. The rail was high and fat and covered with ice and I couldn't touch the edge, so I let myself slide down till my shoe just made contact with the icy steel lip of the roadway on the other side.

"Don't! Don't!" she cried

She had a point there. Below me I could see nothing but the black of the water with a few floes of ice in it. My shirt was pulling out of my pants and the wind was cold on my flesh. I knew I was drunk and I suddenly realized how dangerous this was, what I was doing..

I caught myself and pulled myself back up onto the bridge and almost fell into the street. My head was spinning a little from the sudden surge of adrenaline and I was winded. I could have jumped, though. I was kind of proud of that. The shock of the cold water probably would have knocked me out and that would have been it. I'm a good swimmer, a former lifeguard. But that was several lifetimes ago. That cold water would have been the end of me.

I fell back against the rail and calmed myself down. I had another drink. My breath was steaming in the frosty air.

"What's this all about then?" I asked her. "A guy?"

"What does it matter?"

"You really want to die?"

"Yes. I don't want to live anymore."

I leaned on the rail and looked at her. "Is that right? Can't take it anymore, huh?"

She nodded.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I was going to jump?" I asked her.

"You're drunk," she said.

"Besides that."

"I don't really give a fuck."

That little bit of exertion and adrenaline had actually cleared my head and I didn't feel very buzzed anymore. Looking down at the black water, it didn't look as inviting as it had before. I leaned on the rail about five feet from her, picked up my bottle, then threw it into the river in disgust.

She looked at me. "You were going to jump too?"

"What difference does it make?" I said. "Nothing ever happens. Nothing ever changes. I can't even get drunk anymore."

I heard her shoes scuffle on the bridge and realized I'd had my eyes closed and that I was fighting back tears. I made myself stop. I didn't want to encourage her.

"You know," I said. "Here's what you do. You turn your back to the river and you look at the lights, all the pretty lights of the city. It's everything that'll never be yours; places you'll never go, people you'll never meet because you're such a worthless fuck-up. Then you just let go, and fall."

I opened my eyes and looked at her and she was shivering, really shaking in the cold. She was a pretty girl with thick red hair that was blowing all over her face and her mouth and eyes were smart, though red from crying.

"I don’t want them to find my body," she said.

"Well there's nothing you can do about that. They're going to find you. They care about that shit, finding bodies and all that. You'll probably be in the news."

"Oh fuck!" she moaned. "I don't want that! Will you stay?"

"Hell no. I don't want to get mixed up in this." I looked at her and saw she was crying again, old dry tears. She was cried out. It got to me.

"Okay, don't cry. You want me to stay while you off yourself?" I asked her. "I'll stay if you want me to. Who should I tell them you were?"

She looked at me in confusion, opened her mouth and closed it.

"Well I've got to tell them you're someone. Don’t you have a fucking name?"

I saw her face collapse in slow motion, a terrible pain and sadness rising from the inside and melting her features into a mask of grief and then she started to weep, great wracking sobs that came from deep inside. Her poor scarves, her pretty coat, they all meant nothing compared to the raw agony that poured out of her.

I went over and hugged her and she wrapped her arms around me without thinking, she standing on the outside of the bridge, me on the inside. I smelled her perfume, rare and expensive and heart-breakingly optimistic, warm from her body.

"Come on," I said. "Come on."

A bus went by, big and ugly, its huge tires making an ugly growling sound on the steel mesh of the roadway.

"Come on." I pulled her and heaved and dragged her up over the railing like a rag doll, and all she did was cry and grab onto me like I was life itself. When I finally got her over the rail I staggered back, pulling her with me and we fell onto the dirty sidewalk in a heap, both of us still holding onto each other.

"Come on," I said. "Come on. I've got you. Come with me."

She was blubbering and kind of hysterical. I half-dragged her across the bridge and down the stairs to lower Wacker where I had my car and she didn't stop crying. I opened up the passenger side and helped her in, then got in and started it up, set the heat to blasting and drove down Clark Street to my place. I didn't know where else to take her. If I went to the hospital there'd be all these questions and forms and I didn't want that.

 

[Corylea]

She was wearing very nice shoes: smart; two inch heels, expensive. They just fit on the steel lip of the old bridge. The hem of her slacks was perfect, came up to mid-heel. The girl had money.

He notices this while she's in the middle of a suicide attempt? Are you trying to tell us that your character is exceptionally cold, exceptionally observant, or exceptionally preoccupied with money?

I wasn't who she'd wanted to come along and find her in her suicide attempt and she didn't know what to do.

I really like this line; it makes it sound much more real.


By the way, have you read 3113's "Till Dawn"? I ask because it's about a man and a woman who meet at a bridge where she's trying to kill herself; you might want to read it just to avoid any obvious parallels. http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=234597

 

[dr_mabeuse]

He notices this while she's in the middle of a suicide attempt? Are you trying to tell us that your character is exceptionally cold, exceptionally observant, or exceptionally preoccupied with money?

I think that's exactly the kind of thing I'd notice. Am I a shoe freak?

He's not really out there to kill himself, at least, not definitely. The way I think of it, he's been out to the bridge like maybe 20 times. It's become routine. He already knows that he's not going to jump. (He tells her later on that "Nothing changes. I can't even get drunk anymore.") When he sees her, he's mildly alarmed, then kind of interested (semi-drunk): "Well who the hell is this on my bridge?"

I really didn't think of it, but I wonder if I was trying to show him as submissive from the start, having him look at her feet?

By the way, have you read 3113's "Till Dawn"? I ask because it's about a man and a woman who meet at a bridge where she's trying to kill herself; you might want to read it just to avoid any obvious parallels. http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=234597

No. I'll have to check it out. Thanks.

 

[Pure]

notes

it's a nice little yarn. almost like another story from the other part.

it's a bit too forceful as an intro to his learning to *bottom*. his directily challenging her is interesting, i think throwing in the 'well i'm suicidal too' (meant seriously) is a bit _de trop_. [you know, you could refashion it as a calculated move on his part, a way to reach her.]

again, for (fitting with) the second part, i suggest that her hopeless despair be lessened and her anger more emphasized.

great story!

 

[Sensualist2]

The Girl on The Bridge

The Girl on the Bridge (Beginning)


I don't entirely agree with your self-assessment. Yes, there are some problems but they are small and rather easily fixed. It's an intriguing opening and raises lots of questions that would impel most readers to keep going. Which is part of the point.​

 

[t_g_b]

I think that's exactly the kind of thing I'd notice. Am I a shoe freak?

To be honest, I'd notice that too. It's exactly the kind of detail I tend to notice in a situation like this.

I've only just read the second part but I'm finding it a bit hard to reconcile the woman on the bridge with Beth in the sex scene. She could be a bit more forceful in the scene on the bridge - you don't have to lessen her despair but, for example, she could push him away after he drags her back over the railing.

I really like your portrayal of Michael here - everything he says and does is believable, although for me, his obvious dominance here jars slightly with the sex scene. But if I was going to suggest any changes for Michael it'd be for the next scene and not this one.

Great beginning - I love the story already!