Murder 2
Like Quicksand
It really was a beautiful day for walking on the bridge, thankfully, because she'd been wanting to take a walk for a while now, but it had been too dreary. Authentic doldrums. She looked up into the cliché sky—blue as a robin's egg, not a cloud in sight—tilting her head into the flooding sunlight that cast itself upon the Hudson river, the waves becoming glided as they danced far, far below her feet.
Sadly for her, the charming day did not mirror her heart or her conscience. To take a breather, she stopped midway across, arms resting on the rail, and she looked down, down, down at the water, a few whitecaps struggling up and greeting her. She grimaced. Why did it have to be so windy? It was like…. But it wasn't like she'd meant to do it. The woman had slipped, honestly slipped. She hadn't pushed her…hard. It had just been meant as a playful shove.
Of course it had.
Why did it feel like the water was getting closer? Why did it feel like she was now underneath, whirling around and trying to decipher anything familiar and safe from the encrypted murk, hiding relief and secrets from her, hiding a fee conscience. But why feel guilt? She really hadn't killed that woman. And even if she had, it wasn't like she hadn't had it coming….
Scrunching her eyes up tightly, the girl shook her head violently to dispel these thoughts, and when she opened them again, she was on the bridge, the asphalt stained with sunlight. She smiled unsteadily and shook her head in amazement at the extent of her imagination. It was just shock doing this to her, you know? Not guilt. Ha, silly her.
She was abut to continue but then decided to stay that much longer to admire the view. The ridges and cliffs along the Hudson left her to believe that the water had once been much, much higher, but long, long, long ago. They were so high….
She had pretty much asked for it. The girl had tried to tell her something, but she had made a joke of it, teasing her, which had been funny, but then it had just been annoying. She had been looking for advice, not laughter. Served her right. And then, she'd just happened to slip as the girl had tried to kid back.
As she turned, surveying the lovely view she had from up there, she felt as though she was slowly being pulled down, but how would that happen? Having panicked for a moment, she then laughed at herself quickly. What an odd illusion….
Her ankles were suddenly colder as opposed to the rest of her skin, and she looked down. A cold breeze?
Hm, no.
Speaking of ankles, ah, where were they? She yelped and jumped up, but to no avail. It was as though quicksand had gotten a hold of her and she was slowly being pulled under. Her eyes were saucers, widened in fear, and from her throat came a terrified, quiet whining as more and more of her disappeared.
She was up to her waist in concrete, her legs running midair as cars went by, paying no attention to her. How did they not notice?! Didn't they even care? Apparently not…. She was full on screaming now, up to her neck, and it hurt to strain her throat muscles against concrete. She was just about under when a jogger made his way past and stopped, looking down at her, making a grab for her, trying to help.
One last bit of sadistic humour at her expense.
But she'd already gone under, and, screaming at top-volume, she was flung downwards having been eaten by the bridge quicksand. Her little body slammed—though I don't believe that word is quite strong enough—into the water as if it had hit concrete. The last image she had seen before dying was the woman, lying underwater, red-blond hair made murky brown, rippling and flowing under the surface, arms outstretched, welcoming the girl to the depths.
I lied. That was the last bit of sadistic humour.
When her ripped, torn, and crumpled body had been recovered, the police—despite the wild-eyed jogger's testament—declared her death as suicide—and in a way, it was.