Standing on a bridge was like teetering on the edge of the world. I was standing on a single, solitary pillar licked by raging waters and tumultuous zephyrs. If I reached down, I could hold the world. In my palm.
My feet dug deep into the rustic iron bridge. The metal melted, warped, and solidified in indentations created from my weight. The frigid wind billowed around my body, rustled my messy hair. Ice cold droplets raged against my face and the iron pillars. A buildup of foreign salt, black and cocoa, coated the entire bridge. A couple of pieces slipped under my collar and traced black lines down my chest.
Refreshing, blissful, and irritating all at the same time. It was a perfect mix of excitement and fulfillment.
I leaned forward. Enough for my limp body to catch the mercy of gravity then to be shoved by the furious hurricane winds. The oddly joyful sinking feeling curdled my stomach. Goosebumps pushed my sweat aside, and my ears rang with the cold snap.
I could hear my breath deep in my own head. Long inhales, short exhales.
A beating heart.
A tiny, insignificant shift sent me flying off the bridge, leaving roaring traffic behind and a lunar eclipse bright with blood red.
The sweat was because I was anxious. The goosebumps were because of my excitement. Adrenaline rushed through my veins.
I kept my eyes open and allowed the updraft to soak me, and just when I was going to break the surface.
The rush hit me. A melody of music. And I found where I belonged.