I Chose to Die (Siren Suicides, Book 1)

Chapter 4. Aurora Bridge

I run through the rain barefoot. I'm not ten anymore. I'm sixteen, wearing jeans and a hoodie instead of pajamas. And Papa is not catching me this time, not locking me up alone and leaving to search for my mother. It's my turn to look for her. A sudden memory from that morning nags at me. I hear echoes of the blows father dealt to her delicate face from behind their bedroom door. Go away, déjà vu, it's only my bare feet clapping against asphalt. I keep running, but the sensation continues. I hear the swish of her nightgown against wallpaper, the one that I loved to peel no matter how many times Papa locked me in the bathroom. Wrong, it's only the rustle of wet branches against my sleeves. Wait, I hear something else. Somebody sings my name. Can it be her voice, calling me one last time before jumping off the bridge? I'd tear out my heart to make it true. All logic forgotten, mad hope sends me sprinting.

"Mom, wait for me, I'm coming!" I yell, out of breath. As soon as the words leave my lips, I think I've gone crazy, but a flicker of the impossible makes me run even faster.

I'll just go and look, to make sure. There's nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with simply looking. My legs carry me along the familiar route. My heels hurt from pounding on the ground barefoot. I try to ignore the pain—the heaviness of wet clothes against my body, the numbness and burning of my skin from being cold, the runny nose, and the sharp earache. I make it to where Raye Street dead-ends into Missis Elliott's cookie-cutter house. I stop to sneeze three times, shaking all over.

Her poodle, Lamb-chop, barks at me from behind the glass, his front paws on the windowsill, as always. His white mane shakes like a dandelion about to be blown off. His hysterics must have roused his owner's suspicion because the front door opens and Missis Elliott sticks out her head, her ever-curious eyes taking in the scene for the latest neighborly gossip. She looks exactly like a human version of her poodle, with white curls framing her pasty round face. Her clothes are an indistinguishable pastel color, and always smell of talcum. I firmly believe that she conveniently averted her eyes when my mother stopped by her front gate, perhaps uncertain of where to go. At least, that's what witnesses told police officers later. Missis Elliott claimed she was asleep that early in the morning. Which is bullshit, because she always takes out her stupid dog for a walk at six in the morning sharp.

"Stop staring at me! And I hate your fucking dog!" I yell and wipe my nose, glaring. It feels so great to finally say it out loud.

"Oh!" She opens her mouth, covers it with her soft hand, pushes Lamb-chop back inside with her leg, and quickly shuts the door. I flip her the finger and mouth, Fuck you! as I turn to the left and run down the mossy stairway, shaking from cold and anger.

Knowing this neighborhood so well gives me an advantage because my father has no way of driving onto the Aurora Bridge unless he goes south first, then finds a spot to turn around. And there aren't many. By the time he's done, I'll have gotten onto the bridge by foot.

Why the hell am I going there? To look for my mother? But she's dead; she's been dead for six years now. This is a ridiculous idea. What, is she going to appear out of thin air or something? Thoughts fly through my head as I pound down the forty concrete steps, clutching the railing on my right and inhaling a woodsy smell from the abundance of cypress trees.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking left and right. The street is deserted at this hour. I jog across it, toward the Aurora Bridge. It rumbles under early morning traffic, a mix of commuter cars and huge delivery trucks.

I turn left onto the pedestrian walkway and sprint to the point where the bridge begins to cross water. Another bout of sneezing makes me bend, placing my palms on my knees so that I don't lose my balance. I watch water splatter against the bluish skin of my feet, now covered with road dirt. My throat burns with irritation. I wipe my nose, stand, and glance around. Except for traffic racing to and fro, there's no one on the bridge but me. All 3,000 feet of its length, deserted. Somewhere here, on this side of the bridge, along its middle section that soars 167 feet above the water, my mother climbed over the railing and jumped. I imagined it thousands of times, staring down, clutching the painted, metal barrier until my hands hurt from squeezing.