The Bridge of Screams

(Note: Title created by my wife El)

 

Usually, the walk home from work on a Friday was pleasant. Not quite uplifting but close. Friday was a special day, the one special day each week. The work week was done, unless he was short of cash and picked up some overtime, and he took a different route as a treat.

It was quieter, for the most part, and less populated by pushing people and honking horns. He'd have loved to take the route every day, whether working or not, but doing so would turn something very special into a drab, everyday event. It would take the joy from the experience.

For Friday was the day he visited the bridge.

To the eyes, it was somewhere between unpleasant and ugly; little more than concrete, metal, and the paint of a graffitist obsessed with breasts. To the ears, however, it was astonishing. The first time he'd visited, some years ago, the moment his foot touched the ground within the tunnel, the sound reached him. It wasn't a voice. There were no words. There was only a scream howling outrage, frustration, and pain.

Such was the torment, he'd almost turned about and fled to his usual route.

"I hear you." He'd mumbled words meaning nothing, an empty sentiment to the gentle breeze.

The screams cut off sharply. It was as if his hearing had been stolen, though the rustle of passing leaves proved the lie of the words. There was something else. He couldn't see it, or hear it, but something hung heavy in the air. Not fear, though, perhaps, a touch of anticipation. The howling resumed when he stepped to one of the rocks and sat down.

Sitting in the shadows, surrounded by roaring fury, he spoke of Joyce for a while. He told the tale of meeting her such a long, long time ago. They'd both been young and shy, but there was something in her, something he still, more than half a century later, couldn't find the words to describe. He'd considered magical, a very special word, glorious, stunning, and a thousand others. None of them, not even two or three strung together, could capture the Joyceness of Joyce.

He'd wiped a tear from his eye as he stood, then offered the empty tunnel a wave.

"I'll come back, if you'd like."

The screams turned to a deep, steady tone. Outrage and anger hovered in the background, ensuring their presence was noted, but a hint of welcome flowed over them

He'd returned the following Friday and found the tunnel silent on his entrance. No cries of torment assailed his ears; no wailing rage swirled around him. There was, however, a dark and looming expectation.

"Hello," he'd said on his way to the rock. "It's nice to, um, see you again."

The response was a scream, no doubt about it, but it was gentler than he'd heard on his first visit. By the time he'd finished talking about going to the fair with Joyce, the Ferris wheel terrors, and the dunking booth mishaps, the screams were different. He returned every Friday and told the screams a different story about Joyce and the things they'd done together.

The screams had become softer with each visit. Not the volume, for there were roars when his story was funny and something approaching a sniffle when it was sad. The change was in the feeling, and he hated to use the word, under the bridge. The welcome was joyous, the visit tender, the departure touched with sadness.

He'd explained sickness. He'd told the screams about the way so much was taken from Joyce, little by little, there was hardly a glimmer of her at the end. Explaining death took some doing, but when he finished, he sat still in a long, rolling moan of comfort. The walk home that day took longer than usual.

"Sorry I'm late," he said on entering the bridge's shadow. He paused just inside to both enjoy the welcome and take some deep breaths. A worry touched the screams. "Rough day."

The pain in his chest was crushing now. It made everything difficult, the walk here had nearly killed him, and breathing a tremendous exertion. Still better than the long, stabby spike which hit him at work. He'd nearly dropped to his knees.

"Hang on." He trudged towards the least pointy rock, toes dragging with each laboured step. "Lemme get settled."

The screams swirled around him now, circling with anxious tones.

"I don't have a story tonight," he said as he dropped onto the stone, barely keeping from falling to the ground. "Thought we could sit for a bit."

With a low hum, the screams settled around him.

"I've told you about sickness," His left arm was hanging at his side, not answering his instructions, so he used his right to wipe cold sweat from his face, "and about death."

The hum rose in pitch and volume.

"Think this'll be the last time I come see you." Things around the edges of his vision were getting blurry, hazy. "Surprised I made it all the way, but happy I did."

The screams had shown emotions before. He'd sensed anger and fear, comfort and compassion, warmth and affection, many more. They'd been present, palpable as if they could be snatched from the air, but he'd only sensed them. The emotion which hit him was enormous. A full-body hug delivered by soft arms, the bright and vibrant connection with a lover, the delicate tracing of their fingertip on his chest. A deep respect, admiration, desire, things he couldn't understand. Overwhelming.

"Oh, my," he mumbled. "You're incredible."

"I brought you something." He reached stiffly across his body with his right hand into a jacket pocket. "Nothing too great but I hope it'll remind you of me, you know, if you get a little sad after I'm gone."

"I'm not sure you see the way I do, or even if you see at all. I hope you do. I've never seen a pink like this anywhere."

He held a crystal about the size of his thumb out, his aching arm sagging.

A low purr confirmed both sight and admiration.

"Ulkla," he cried in a weak and gasping voice. "Clasp!"

A shriek filled the air, loud enough to tear at his ears, shrill as an icepick to the brainstem. It cut off into a sharp silence. The crystal gleamed a heavy, unpleasant purple.

He closed his hand around it. The pain evaporated. An enormous breath made his lungs crackle. His failing heart delivered an immense thump.

A soft, stuttering sigh accompanied his rising to his feet.

"Much better," he said as he brought the crystal to eye level. "Thank you, for your love. It's needed for the capture."

He snugged his belt then adjusted his clothing here and there, some spots a little too tight, others a little too loose.

"Your strength is incredible." He peered into the crystal. "Just a taste and I'm thirty years younger. You'll last for centuries."

"I'd hoped to keep the tiniest bit of Joyce for you to meet." He turned and continued his journey home. "Alas, I required the last of her to reach you."

"I do apologize for the accommodations. I'm given to understand it is unpleasant in there. Soul-destroying agony was the description provided when I obtained the object. I'm sure you'll get used to it."

He tucked the trap into his pocket and left the silent bridge behind.