Life, death and bridges

She’s falling from the building so quickly.

In movies the people always fall in slow motion, but she doesn’t. Mom’s body shatters on the floor into butterflies and I open my eyes.

She’s laying next to me, her breath even and her hair messy. The sheets are soaked and I shake her awake.

“What is it, honey?”, she mumbles into her pillow.

“I had a nightmare.”, I say, and she slowly heaves up her body to lock me into her arms. I cry there for a little bit, because even if that nightmare was just a nightmare, I still somehow don’t feel relieved.

“That must be the pills. Weird dreams are one of the side effects the doctor told me about”, Mom sighs.

I hiccup into her shoulder until I fall asleep again.

I’m standing in front of the building with my hand gripping harshly on my hair and my eyes set on the clear sky.

The air flows through my short hair and I take a step forward. And I fall.

And there are lots of butterflies and I wake up in my mother’s arms.

I don’t wake her this time.

Next thing I know I’m climbing over the fence on the bridge, passengers screaming, yelling, crying.

I fall, and I fall, and I fall, and I land. Hard.

When I wake up the sun is shining on my face and my mom is gone. Today is Saturday and mom wants to visit the bridge that connects the river banks not far away.

I cry when we arrive, and I cry back at home because I’m scared of sleeping.

But I sleep again and again and again, and I wake up and wake up and wake up and every time I’m disappointed and sad and horrible and sad. It now is Tuesday and I wake up, but I don’t cry.

I dreamed of suicide and of death and self harm, but I don’t cry.

I don’t cry, because I don’t care.

Because at some point after weeks, months and years you give up.

And I gave up.

And at some point the nightmares stopped. Because I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care if I fell.

Yet I never jumped.