Incident on the Bridge

On the outskirts of town, atop a lonely roadside bridge, sat the therapist and the troubled man. The milder air was shepherding the darker clouds around them now, signaling the end of a streak of exceptionally hot days. Yet, even as the setting sun unsheathed the shadows that were cutting through the landscape toward them like knives, neither would budge. 

At some point, the bridge had probably served as a link between the village and its surrounding industrial estate. These days, however, the textile and manufacturing plants had long since packed up and skipped town. The only reminder now of them ever having existed were a couple of hollowed brick and tin skeletons, which looked more like anthills now from under the pair’s dangling feet. 

The therapist had only become a therapist (that is, he had only received his accredited certification to call himself a therapist) barely a month prior. Nonetheless, his enthusiasm for the opportunity to finally put into action his newly-acquired skills was immediate. 

On the evening after receiving his final examination results, he had returned home to find Jane waiting in the back garden. A congratulatory bottle of bubbly rested uncorked on the bench beside her. For the first time in weeks, they sat talking without any hint of an uncomfortable silence between them. It wasn’t until much later on that night that she had mentioned their bridge. In fact, the therapist was not even aware by that point that another young man had tried to jump just the other day. 

As the therapist lay in bed that night, Jane’s words were still turning over like cogs in his brain. In bringing up “their bridge,” he of course knew she was talking about the place which held significance to the both of them. Though the locals referred to it as “the bridge that leads to nowhere,” their association was somewhat more endearing— they had found each other there and had been living together ever since. 

Initially, when she’d first suggested he wait up there on the bridge with the hope of dissuading another person from jumping, she never anticipated that he would have taken to the idea quite so firmly. But then again, how was she ever supposed to know? To the therapist, on the other hand, this had made perfect sense. Not only did he see this as a way in which to measure the effectiveness of his knack for counsel, but he also considered it to be the only way to redeem this most sacred and sentimental of places. 

Through the summer holiday period, this quest of sorts had proven (for the first week or two at least) to be a mostly uneventful—if not self-reflective—exercise. Every morning, just before midday, the therapist would fill his rucksack with a sandwich, a plum, a flask of tea, a book, a flannel blanket, and a flashlight. He’d then follow the snaking trail along the edge of the motorway, veering off towards a hill where the bridge extended over the valley like a dismembered limb. After lobbing the rucksack over the safety barrier, he would proceed to climb the old gate, using the medley of padlocked chains as leverage to hold his weight. Finally, once he’d managed to get both legs over without snagging any clothing, he’d let go… landing with both feet upon the narrow ledge that resided on the other side. 

For the most part, the long hours up there were mostly spent reading old case studies that laid out subjects like grief, loss, and trauma in technical terms. Where possible, the therapist made notes and annotations in the small white margins at the edge of the page. Whenever he grew bored of this, he would return to the manufactured world of a novel. During lunch or tea breaks, the therapist would familiarize himself with the many bird calls that were carried to him on the wind. Finally, at the end of the day, he’d find himself counting the incandescent dots below, the illuminated windows in the distance shining shine like flecks of copper in the waning light. 

One afternoon, as the therapist was attempting to make his way back along the bridge, he heard a rustling noise coming from the direction of the safety barrier. As he squinted through the thick dusk, his eyes fell upon the curious glances of an adolescent fox. It soon became clear that both man and creature had become inconvenient obstructions in the direct path of the other. And yet, for some time, they were unable to move, as if they’d hoped that neither of them had noticed the other’s presence.

By now, the sky was blackening and descending over the therapist like a collapsed tent. He was soon growing wary of the looming danger of being up so high—and all with such limited visibility. Suddenly, he remembered the uneaten sandwich crusts in the brown paper bag. Cautious not to startle his inquisitive guest, he slowly began to remove the rucksack from off his shoulders. The fox kept its eyes fixed upon the stranger in the path; its nose pointed at him, desperate to catch his scent in the thick summer air. Both ears sprung up suddenly as the therapist tossed the limp corners of bread at the path ahead. But the fox only broke its gaze momentarily, more interested in the plight of the stranger than the food. The therapist recognized something distinctly human in those eyes on the bridge that evening. It was as if the tables had turned and he’d suddenly become the subject of nature’s own examination. The therapist stood there, passive and compliant, allowing the curious fox to assess him under the thin ribbons of light. Then, without warning, the young fox suddenly took flight under the gate and back down the hill, where it vanished in the ravenous shadows. 

The next morning, the therapist had stolen away unnoticed, leaving Jane sprawled out under the electric fan in a deep sleep. The humidity from the night before was still lingering, and the air felt so thick that as he ascended the hill again, he felt as if he were wading through nectar. 

He wasn’t exactly sure why it was that he had decided to set off quite so early that morning. Perhaps it was the unusually hot night that had left his mind busy and restless. Or maybe it was because he had sensed that Jane had wanted to sit down and have a serious talk with him, and he was trying to find a way to avert the inevitable. Regardless, he felt himself brimming with a new sense of purpose as he dismounted the fence and proceeded to toe the narrow ledge on the other side. The bridge had now become his office, and although he didn’t know it at the time, he was about to come across his first patient. 

In truth, the troubled man was more likely in his late teens, as his senior school tie and blazer would have immediately suggested. He wasn’t standing, but the therapist could tell the troubled man would have been a good few inches taller than he was. His grey slacks were almost comically short for his long and lanky legs, and as they swung over the edge, the dark skin on his ankles glistened when they caught the sun. It didn’t seem to bother him that he now had company. The therapist trod carefully across the bridge to where the stranger was sitting and planted himself down at a safe distance. The last thing he wanted was to make the young man feel threatened or more anxious than he may have already been. The therapist began combing the open area below where the young man appeared to be looking: a thicket of bushes where the earth was covered under slabs of uneven concrete. Aside from a solitary wheelbarrow that lay toppled out in the open, there was nothing remarkable worth noting. 

The therapist leaned back on both hands and thought about how best to approach the situation. There was a sudden urge to consult his textbook, but he figured now was hardly the time to start rummaging through the contents of his rucksack. A torrent of images flashed through his mind all at once: the after-hours sessions in the library, that evening in the back garden with Jane, the cautionary words of advice from his former teacher: 

“In critical situations, every second one does not act is equal to an hour lost.”

Finally, the therapist built up the courage to turn to the stranger on the bridge. “Up until now, I’d figured I was the only one who enjoyed the view from up here.”

The therapist studied the young man’s reaction to his words. He didn’t appear to notice, nor care. His gaze remained unbroken, as if he were a fisherman looking out over the sea where his line was cast beyond the breakers. Was he intentionally trying to ignore the spoken words? 

The therapist tried once more, making sure his voice was more commanding this time. “I hope I’m not disturbing you at all if I sit here for a moment, am I?”

Without so much as looking up, the stranger slowly raised one finger to his nose before letting his hand rest again on the bridge.

The therapist slouched, feeling dejected and downright ineffective. It was quite obvious that the young man had very little interest in engaging in any dialogue. His mind grappled with thinking of a way in which he could somehow encourage him to return over the fence and onto safe ground. The distant rumble of a plane’s engine passed overhead, but the men were both looking down into the valley now, and neither seemed to notice. 

Then, without warning, the stranger picked himself up, dusted his trousers, and walked back along the shoulder of the bridge, climbing over the safety barrier.

If the following days were of any indication, it would seem the heatwave that had occupied the village was never going to end. The unrelenting sun had baked the earth by this point until it cracked in places, like a burnt cake. And yet, the therapist spent more and more time on the bridge, despite there being scarcely any shelter nor shade. 

His textbook soon became filled with a multitude of notes, highlighted passages, and dog-ear folds. He felt confident that there would be no repeated episode of his previous encounter, should he ever cross paths again with the troubled man.

Life back on the ground for the therapist seemed to be shifting in new and strange directions. He was finding himself coming home at odd hours, eating alone and sleeping even less. His crusade for redemption was bordering on the obsessive. Was he relying on an outcome to save somebody else’s life, or as a way in which to save his own? The line was becoming more and more ambiguous and indefinable. In any event, he felt as if his life on the ground would never be quite right again until he had come to some sort of resolution on the bridge. 

By the time that fateful afternoon had come around, the therapist wasn’t really in the mood for any reading. The only reason he’d even removed a book from his rucksack was to fan the sweltering air away from his face with it. From a loose cluster of trees directly below, a noisy group of starlings were growing evermore restless. They’d probably anticipated the army of black clouds that were advancing over the valley, like blots of ink bleeding into the blue sky. The therapist was watching them encircle the treetops and break away in unison when the footsteps approached. As he looked up, he saw the troubled man sitting there beside him. 

This time around, the therapist didn’t bother with any small talk. Instead, he just sat looking out over the valley, hoping that he wouldn’t be perceived as a threat or an intruder. The young man’s eyes gravitated to that exact spot below their feet. Soon, the therapist’s attention was drawn to the same place. 

For the first time in over a week, the incoming clouds cast ominous shadows over half of the valley below. But the men were now locked in a meditative gaze, and even a thunderous crack from the heavens couldn’t pull them away. 

Eventually, the young man leaned back and spoke slowly: “You know, every Friday morning, I die. I close my eyes and imagine myself landing right there on the concrete by the clearing. And with it, all my memories and pent-up aggression cease to exist. It sounds strange, but when I get up and walk back off this bridge, it’s like I’m experiencing everything down there for the first time.” 

The therapist listened to the calm intonation in the young man’s words. There was a soothing manner in which he spoke that filled the therapist with a reassuring sense of comfort and security. He suddenly thought of Jane and the day he’d crossed paths with her on the bridge. She probably wouldn’t be around once he decided to come home.

A droplet of rain splashed onto the back of the therapist’s hand. The heatwave that had occupied the village was finally coming to an end. The young man stood and walked over the bridge toward the gate at the other side. But the therapist didn’t seem to notice. Instead, his gaze remained glued to the ground below.

Sonny Arifien is an Australian writer of multicultural backgrounds now residing by the sea in Kent, UK. He is currently working on his first novel, Pieces of Cake. 

In addition to writing pieces on culture and the arts for a number of publications, including Vogue Business and Chrom-Art London, Sonny is also the creative director and founder of Privilege of Legends, an online destination dedicated to unearthing cinema from all over the world that doesn't receive enough exposure in the mainstream press.

Whether it’s fiction, screenplays, essays, or editorials, Sonny is passionate about inspiring others like himself who are more accustomed to broken homes and struggle than academic degrees and conventional avenues.   

You can view Sonny’s portfolio here. Follow Sonny on Twitter and Instagram.

Artwork by Fatema Al Fardan