The fog lay thick across the rusted steel, the headlights of my jeep barely penetrated the murky soup. My shadow rose against the gray bank of clouds looking colossal and grotesque. My laughter penetrated the eerie silence. Was I loosing my mind? Absolutely. I couldn’t help but become hysterical as I looked at the intimidating image my form cast because this shadow, this trick of light, somehow had more substance than what was left of my physical form. I felt empty - numb to the cold, numb to the dark, numb to the creeks and sways of this old bridge. I tried to remember what life had felt like. How I had found comfort in others touch, the feeling of the warm sun soaking into my skin, the way my skin stretched and delightfully ached from too much laughter and smiling. But those feeling were gone, their memory only a fleeting thought. Gone like my home, gone like my family. I sank even deeper into myself as I recalled all that had been lost. No, not lost. Stolen. Ripped away by those who claimed to be my friends, those who’s touch I’d once found comfort in.

Maybe I’m not numb. Inside there is some thing. Something dark and hard. And it is burning. It is rage. Justified pure rage.

I clench my fists and let the rage pour out. The headlights flicker and go out as the wall of ashen cloud because a solid piece of obsidian. I won’t be crossing this bridge, no one will. They thought I had nothing left to live for and they were right. Now I will become their death and they have no way to escape.