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The Bridge Over Charles River

Megan Willoughby

    I am free.
    They tell me I am free.
    I am not free—they lie.
    I was let out of jail a month ago. I stopped counting how long I was in there after the first year. They tell me it is 2008.
    The jail became my home. In those walls, behind those fences, I was among people that were worse than me. But here, out here, in this brave new world, I am an offender. People look at me with scorn. Something about me is different, no one can ever manage to put a finger on it. Maybe it’s the way I constantly look over my shoulder, or perhaps the secret lies behind my glassy eyes.
    In the jail I could hide from the guilt. It really is a different world, right down to the toothbrushes.
    But out here everything is different. It is lights out when I decide it’s time for lights out. I am expected to pick up my dry cleaning, but I see the face everywhere. I see it reflected in shop windows, in mirrors, in the faces of small children, in the sheen of a new car. I see it everywhere. I wish I could hide from it.
    In the jail, people would tell me their stories. Heinous, horrible crimes of violence, rape, molestation, murder. It was routine, they felt no remorse but pretended to. But I can’t get away from the face.
    Every time I get into a car, even though someone else is driving, I am afraid. What if it happens again? Some greater cosmic significance must have been attached to me. Does God laugh at me? Lightening always hits the same place twice. No matter what they tell you—it’s true.
    Every time I see a bicycle with training wheels, I see the face.
    One day, one fucking bitter, awful, rainy day, I climbed into my car. In high school, they told us how dangerous it was to drink and drive, but it never feels as dangerous when you do it. I told my friend I would be fine to drive—they were always a bit more mature, a bit more apt to moderation. They sometimes took the harder things I offered them, but now they have families and careers—such is life. We were never bad kids, but it was three PM and I was ripped.
    I sat in the car for a while, chain smoking cigarettes. They began to lull me to sleep. I decided I would drive through my friend’s neighborhood as fast as I could, just to see if I could break the laws of gravity.
    I began to drive. Slow at first. I lit another cigarette and clutched it between my teeth. I felt the smoke swirl around in my lungs. My uncle had died of lung cancer but I was young and foolish.
    I began to drive faster. I let my body take over. My mind was in space, far above me, watching me. It was like a movie and I was the main character. It was exciting. The sight of me in the car, of the car racing down the empty street—it was the most beautiful thing I had ever felt.
    Horsepower. I wanted more horsepower.
    My foot slammed the pedal down. The car rocketed forward. I leaned back, not slowing for the turns, flying past cars backing out of driveways, flying past people coming home from wherever they were, flying past children on slip n’ slides.
    I began to pay attention to the beautiful sunny color of a house.
    I turned back to the road.

    And I saw the face. After seeing the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed, here was this face lurching out at me. She was utterly terrified. Children should never know that they are going to die. She had the face of an eighty year old man and she had hardly lived her life. I remember a book I had read: The Horror was reflected in her face. She was nightmarish.
    My tires screeched. I felt a bump. This was no rabbit. This was a toddler. A person. A fucking person. I didn’t believe in the soul then. But the moment I heard the thud, I believed in the soul.
    I put my head down, closed my eyes, and began to cry long, deep sobs. The thud was bang bang banging over and over again. Look what you have done. Look what you have done, you stupid junkie.
    I heard screams, I heard sobs.
    The sounds got worse.
    I heard the scream of an ambulance and police cars, the shout of paramedics, the shout of police officers. It felt like two seconds had passed. How can they be here so quick? I can barely think.
    Someone pulled me out of the car. I was still sobbing. Snot was dripping from my nose, my face was completely wet with blood and tears.
    A paramedic led me to an ambulance and began to clean the cut on my head.
    A police officer had to restrain a woman. I didn’t pay attention to what she said, but whatever she did say, I probably deserved.
    I stopped crying. My face went blank. I wanted to kill myself. I played a game with God in my head. Let me go back, let me die, let them live, let me die. I’m just a junkie.
    God didn’t bargain back.
    People were gathered outside. Yellow tape was put up. A sheet was pulled out. I didn’t look. I couldn’t. If I looked, I would start to cry again, and then everyone would hate me. They already did. But I didn’t want to cry and hate myself more.
    Cars drove away silently.
    I sat in the back of the other ambulance, board faced.
    I was handcuffed, I remember the cool metal on my skin. They put them on too tight; my skin became raw in the squad car.
    I was put in a cell.
    I didn’t cry again until the trial. I had to dehumanize everyone. If I didn’t do so, I would cry during the entire thing. I said how sorry I was. It made no difference. I could see the face then too.
    I was sent to jail.
    And now I am back in the world, no more than a ruthless pig. I have killed, and who says it won’t happen again?
    I see the face everywhere. I cannot bear it. I will never be the same. The fucking guilt.
    They told me that her name was Susie.
    I will wear ankle weights like Quentin. The water has always been so calming to me.

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