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My Mistake
I thought things would be better. In fact at the time I never thought things could have gotten worse. But they have, believe me, they have. I spend every day at the bridge now. No one can see me but I’m there; day after day, watching cars go by. There are others here too, but we don’t communicate. I try not to even look at them; they’re so sad. Most of them are soaking wet because they jumped. That had been my plan, but I lost my nerve. It seemed so much easier to just step in front of that truck. I thought it would be all over in a matter of minutes. How wrong I was.
The endless monotony of my days is enough to drive a person crazy. But the nights are worse. At night my real punishment begins. Every time someone sheds a tear or has a nightmare because of me, I have to go to them. They can’t see me or hear me or even feel my presence but I have to be there just the same. I have to listen as that truck driver agonizes over what he could have done to avoid hitting me. I have to pay attention while the man cries himself to sleep. And he didn’t even know me.
My friends are angry and consider me a coward. “Took the easy way out” is a phrase they sometimes use. If they only knew. But they don’t see me in the room where my sister cries. To my astonishment and dismay she blames herself for what I did. I never blamed her for anything; she had nothing to do with it, but she’s convinced herself the whole thing was somehow her fault. They don’t see me watching my brother toss and turn until he finally wakes up with a scream from dreaming he’s just seen me go under a truck. And nobody sees me with my parents while they wonder where they could possibly have gone wrong and ask each other why I did it.
My father walks to the bridge every day. He stands there sadly and silently watching the cars go by. Day after day. It’s enough to make me wish I hadn’t made such a mistake.