Styx and Stones
A stone, a bridge over a river, and a stout rope. What more does a man need?
The water was turgid and muddy. It was deep enough, certainly. Why, just last year, Old Ari had driven his Cadillac into it, and it had sunk without a trace. And it had taken divers three days to find his remains, because you couldn't see past your outstretched hand in that soup. Heck, the only reason that you could call it a river was because it was flowing only slightly faster than the land on either side of it. It was perfect.
It had to be done at night. Pretty frickin' obvious, isn't it? You don't want anyone else to see, do you? Nosirree bob, you don't, not unless you're on a sympathy drive, and you want someone to stop you. Or, because you want to be a martyr to a cause and you want everyone to know why you're dying. Oh no, I lived an anonymous death, and an anonymous death will do me just fine.
One end of the rope around the rock, being careful to check that it won't slip out. I wouldn't want any accidents, now would I? The other end goes around my waist, and that has to be nice and tight. I think I would have preferred concrete overshoes, but for one thing, I wouldn't know how to prepare them, and then, I would've found it hard to jump off. Worse, I would've left tracks, in the shape of bags and mixing tubs, and whatever else you need for concrete.
Now, how to do it? Do I push the rock off, and then jump after it? No, that doesn't feel right. I think I'll just grab a hold of the rock, and jump with it in my arms. Then, I'll let go of it in the water, and let it drag me down. Yes, that sounds about right. At least, that's how they seem to do it in the movies.
So, I jump. The water comes up to meet me, and we meet halfway to hell in a distinctly slurpy sound, as though it were the maw of some immense beast, sucking me up a straw, swallowing me whole. And that was exactly what the river did, swallowed me whole. It sucked me in, and it swallowed me whole.
The water was cold, shockingly cold. The shock of it made me drop the rock, which I had now been trying to hold on to desperately, as though it were a long lost friend, as though it were my only friend. But I dropped it, and it disappeared into the gloom beneath me. And now, there was only the rope, fading from view into infinity.
The rock pulled me down, and then finally, I moved no more, and there was a moment of calm. There was a moment of calm, in which I was stranded between the time that my breath was held involuntarily, and the time that I would have to force myself to hold my breath. A single moment to reflect upon myself.
I'd shut my eyes, for I could not stand to feel the grimy water against them. It would've made little difference anyway, for the water was assuredly dark, for I could feel no light against my closed eyelids. There was only darkness, complete and binding, claustrophobic. The water pressed against my ears, and I wished for a pair of earplugs, for the feel of the water was unpleasant, and I did not wish my eardrums to pop. Not that it would have made much of a difference, but there are things that a man cannot stand, even on the brink of death.
I did not want to swim, and so, I did not hold out long. I opened my mouth to draw breath, and in rushed water, into my throat, choking me, into my windpipe, and I opened my mouth even further, not to breathe, but to scream, to expel the water that pushed into me, but it made little difference. I choked, and I spluttered, and in desperation, I picked at the rope around my waist, but the water pushed at me from all directions, and soon, all was dark, inside and out...
A stone, a bridge over a river, and a stout rope. What more does a man need?
The water was turgid and muddy. It was deep enough, certainly. Why, just last year, Old Ari had driven his Cadillac into it, and it had sunk without a trace. And it had taken divers three days to find his remains, because you couldn't see past your outstretched hand in that soup. Heck, the only reason that you could call it a river was because it was flowing only slightly faster than the land on either side of it. It was perfect.
It had to be done at night. Pretty frickin' obvious, isn't it? You don't want anyone else to see, do you? Nosirree bob, you don't, not unless you're on a sympathy drive, and you want someone to stop you. Or, because you want to be a martyr to a cause and you want everyone to know why you're dying. Oh no, I lived an anonymous death, and an anonymous death will do me just fine.
One end of the rope around the rock, being careful to check that it won't slip out. I wouldn't want any accidents, now would I? The other end goes around my waist, and that has to be nice and tight. I think I would have preferred concrete overshoes, but for one thing, I wouldn't know how to prepare them, and then, I would've found it hard to jump off. Worse, I would've left tracks, in the shape of bags and mixing tubs, and whatever else you need for concrete.
Now, how to do it? Do I push the rock off, and then jump after it? No, that doesn't feel right. I think I'll just grab a hold of the rock, and jump with it in my arms. Then, I'll let go of it in the water, and let it drag me down. Yes, that sounds about right. At least, that's how they seem to do it in the movies.
So, I jump. The water comes up to meet me, and we meet halfway to hell in a distinctly slurpy sound, as though it were the maw of some immense beast, sucking me up a straw, swallowing me whole. And that was exactly what the river did, swallowed me whole. It sucked me in, and it swallowed me whole.
The water was cold, shockingly cold. The shock of it made me drop the rock, which I had now been trying to hold on to desperately, as though it were a long lost friend, as though it were my only friend. But I dropped it, and it disappeared into the gloom beneath me. And now, there was only the rope, fading from view into infinity.
The rock pulled me down, and then finally, I moved no more, and there was a moment of calm. There was a moment of calm, in which I was stranded between the time that my breath was held involuntarily, and the time that I would have to force myself to hold my breath. A single moment to reflect upon myself.
I'd shut my eyes, for I could not stand to feel the grimy water against them. It would've made little difference anyway, for the water was assuredly dark, for I could feel no light against my closed eyelids. There was only darkness, complete and binding, claustrophobic. The water pressed against my ears, and I wished for a pair of earplugs, for the feel of the water was unpleasant, and I did not wish my eardrums to pop. Not that it would have made much of a difference, but there are things that a man cannot stand, even on the brink of death.
I did not want to swim, and so, I did not hold out long. I opened my mouth to draw breath, and in rushed water, into my throat, choking me, into my windpipe, and I opened my mouth even further, not to breathe, but to scream, to expel the water that pushed into me, but it made little difference. I choked, and I spluttered, and in desperation, I picked at the rope around my waist, but the water pushed at me from all directions, and soon, all was dark, inside and out...