The Promise

Chapter 2

It was damn cold. My entire body was shaking and I could feel my back spasm with each shudder. I tried to lift my head, but a pain shot down my spine. I laid it back down and tried to open my eyes. There was a dull light leaking through obstacles. Slowly, my focus returned, and I glanced unknowingly at my surroundings. The light was coming through an assembly of cardboard and wood surrounding me. One side looked to be a pallet that had a series of flattened cardboard boxes woven through its slats.

I had a torn green blanket over me. I tried lifting my shaking hands, but more pain shot across my back. The blanket smelled foul, like the inside of a wet sneaker. I raised my head enough to see the white stains, obviously bird waste, speckling the blanket. I choked at the thought and tried again to move. The pain was too much, so I collapsed on the hard surface that served as my bed. I was lying, slightly inclined, on cardboard sheets. I suspected there was unyielding cement beneath them.

My shaking was getting worse. I was soaked from head to toe, and the water was foul. Maybe it was I who smelled so bad. The bridge drifted back into my mind. The events leading up to it and then, Amber. Grief flooded back as the uncontrollable shaking continued. I couldn't even fall off a bridge properly. It would be slow, but I was going to freeze to death. I could feel my fingers going numb and my lips weren't moving right. I closed my eyes; they say succumbing to hypothermia is just like falling asleep. Amber was there, in my mind. Something was missing, and I couldn't figure out what it was. My memory was imperfect. I knew it was her, but something was off. It didn't look quite right and I struggled, shaking, to bring back the perfect image. I was losing her. I hated myself.

Footsteps, walking through loose gravel, echoed in my cardboard tomb. I opened my eyes and turned my head toward the sound. The steps left the gravel and became quieter as they hit a harder surface. I realized this must be the person who unsaved me.

A small section of the cardboard cocoon was pulled away to reveal a cloudy, dismal day. I could make out some large concrete supports and the brownish iron underlying a portion of the bridge. An old black man, his hair graying on both his face and head, grinned at me. His teeth could furnish a dentist with months of work.

"You're up," he said with eyes brighter than his weather-beaten face. "They call me Houser. I pulled you out the water." He tossed a bundle into the tiny shanty, and it landed on my chest.

"Should have left me," I chattered, not realizing talking would be difficult.

"This side's mine," Houser stated firmly, "you want to die, go to the other side." He used his head to gesture along the bridge to the other bank. "Them's dry clothes. They ain't the finest," he smiled again, "but they's dry. Got them from the shelter, so they's clean." He crawled into the hovel and reclosed the opening. He didn't smell any better than I did. I tried to sit up and a sharp pain put me back down.

"Just roll me back into the water," I groaned. Houser laughed. It was a halting laugh that didn't speak well of his mental state.

"You missed most of the rocks, but ya found a few." Houser chuckled. "Bet you're real sore about now." That's all I needed, some homeless guy laughing at me about my failed suicide. I took a few deep breaths and cried out as my muscles protested. I forced myself to sit up. The dirty blanket fell forward onto my lap and my upper body felt even colder. I sat shivering, trying not to move much. My lower back would have preferred I lie back down.

"Give me your shirt," Houser demanded. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to give my back time to get used to the new position. It wasn't fast enough for Houser. "The shirt or you leave. You have to go somewhere else to die," he said while holding out his dirty hand. I was in no condition to leave and I guess he had a right to demand I didn't die in his home, as crappy as it was. I tried to unbutton my shirt with my shaking hands. The mixture of the cold and the shooting pains as I moved my arms made it very slow going. I couldn't feel much in the tip of my fingers, which made it difficult to shove the button back through the wet hole. Houser started laughing again. "Maybe you don't miss the rocks next time." He barely got it out before resuming his inappropriate laughter.