Falling and Flying

She balanced herself on the bridge railing that connected the car park to the shopping mall. Her long skirt billowed out around her. It was an overcast Sunday afternoon. Alison and I walked towards her, towards the bridge. What was she doing? A balding man approached us. Don’t get too close. I think she’s going to jump. Oh. Fuck. He edged his way forward. I didn’t hear what he said to her. She looked down. She looked in our direction. She was young; she was our age. 

Don’t. Please don’t. I couldn’t read her expression. She appeared calm. Her dark hair was blowing around her face. I thought, for a moment, she was a performer. I closed my eyes then she disappeared. The balding man’s face turned scarlet red. No. No. He asked us if we were OK. I heard someone scream in the distance. Don’t look. Don’t. She was lying in the fetal position, fast asleep in the middle of the street. I don’t know if she survived the fall. Tears pricked my eyes. Alison’s mouth was hanging open. I gripped her hand and scurried back the way we came. We walked in silence for a while. Alison hugged me on the corner of our street and cried. 

That evening I thought of a fellow student who had told me a story. He went camping with his friends and took LSD to connect with nature and himself. I remember him saying that he could feel a pair of wings unfurl on his back at some point, so he thought he could fly. Just as he was about to leap off the riverbank and into the night, his friend tackled him to the ground and saved him from drowning. Feeling foolish the next day, he still remembered the wonder he felt for his newfound flying ability. I was uncomfortable, at the time, listening to him exposing his near-death experience with glee. The version of himself that almost died was buried in the past, but he lives on through storytelling. That was seventeen years ago. I don’t know what happened to him. 

Did the young woman on the bridge think she could fly? Perhaps she thought she would drift over the city like a balloon if she took in a deep enough breath. But she didn’t float away; she never lifted off. The chance to recount her story, and all the past versions of herself, escaped into the wind that day.