Under a Lonesome Bridge

Her fingers touched the cold water. The sensation sent shivers through her body - or was it rather the promise it held?

So many things had changed, so many things had been lost so long ago, she couldn't really recall what they were like. Getting touched by the warm rays of the sun or feeling one's own pulse, these were things of the past, things of another life that died one night in an enchanted embrace. The woman sitting next to the river was nothing but a corpse, her body no warmer than the stones on which she rested. There was no heart beat to rush the blood through the veins, no pulse to be felt. And yet she moved, and if she wished, she breathed, a rather meaningless gesture.

He had promised her true love, to be with her for eternity. He had desired to make her beauty last forever, a dream just for the two of them to share. And she had listened and his soft voice had caressed her soul making her forget the teachings of the priests, the words of her parents, and finally herself so that that final night could come.

But the dream was shattered. For with the transition, she had unwittingly entered the world of an eternal war, of eternal struggeling, suffering, and destruction. The vampiric society was caught in politics and backstabbing no one really understood anymore. His existance had been claimed by it, and the same treason had cost her her eyes, her face. Whenever her searching fingers ventured to touch it, she felt the scars that would never heal, and she could guess at the sight she would perceive in the water. It had been the rays of the sun, whose warmth she had enjoyed during her childhood, that have punished her horribly for what she had become.

There was stirring nearby, and glass was clattering across the stones as the smell of Vodka permeated the air. The breathing of the man next to her, momentarily uneasy returned to a steady pace, very soon becoming a quiet, constant snoring. The next morning, he would probably lament toppling the bottle in his sleep, spilling its contents.

She smiled. Although she couldn't see them, she has come to know the homeless very well. It was always during the evening hours they came. They brought news about the city with them and spirits to drown their sorrows in. Just like her, they were outcasts from their society, robbed of their future by circumstance and a cruel world without ever having a chance. There was a certain kind of kinship between her and them, which was probably what had allowed her to become part of their community.

As they talked away during the evening, she learned not only about the news in the world of the living, she also heard the stories of their lives. It were all stories well- fit for the darkness she was trapped in. A few had been deceived by their peers, some others had been ousted by those wanting their prestigeous jobs. But most had simply been unlucky. They got caught in some accident or became unemployed as victims of the recession. And once they had become out casts, society would not let them return. Sure, there the salvation army and other programs to assist them, but for most people, donating to these was more like feeding the pidgeons in the park than really getting involved with another person's life. They were no longer human, they were something less than human, to many young people even less than their pet dogs, and thus the target of daily scorn and unjustified spite and hate.

Thus, it shouldn't be surprising that these victims would acknowledge her in their midst, a blind woman, whose beauty was only hinted at under hideous scars. They offered her food, alcohol, and what comfort they could give, and she accepted their small gifts gratefully, finding some consolation in their company, though in the end, there was the eternal truth of her nature, a cold iron wall cutting her off from the humanity around her.

It was always with a feeling of guilt when she drank of their blood in their sleep, but she knew that she needed to feed lest the beast that had devoured her soul ages ago would be freed to make her kill these last friends she had. So she kept on drinking regularly, always in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep, and always just little amounts that wouldn't be missed.

Of course, there was always the option of her to wait for the sunrise, to accept its fiery punishment. Or she could simply walk into the river as its waters would wash away her twisted body, cleansing her soul from her memories, her past, her wretched existance. But she knew she wouldn't have the strength to do it. She would step back from the water, and she would hide in the bridge's shadow when the sun returned. Everything would stay the same, only the voices and names of the members of the pitiable community under the bridge would change. And the grief would prevail.