On The Bridge by Ada Uzoije

self-doubt, failure and hurt – the trick was in how one handled one’s problems. She hated those self-righteous pricks who never had a day’s misery in their lives and then went around telling her how her problems were her own doing. It was simply not true. Many times a bad patch hit her because of some idiot who would not employ her, leaving her broke and in trouble. How was that her fault, then?
    Now Krista pouted, but the music soothed her out of the heavier upset at the banking site and its terrible tech which vexed her no end. She found the clearer side of the station and turned up the music, allowing the blaring saxophone to take her thoughts off the irritation which could easily drive her into dangerous temper tantrums at the drop of a hat. Unknowingly she had been grinding her teeth and her jaw began to ache as she turned up the music, but soon her stress declined somewhat as the delirium of the vibes from the meagre radio speaker possessed her heart. Krista twirled with it, barefoot, in her room and she soon twirled her way to the fridge for a soda. It was too hot for coffee, she decided, and elected to enjoy the bubbly coldness burning down her parched throat.
    A ping sounded from her room as she stood in the dark kitchen, swallowing a huge gulp of soda until her skull ached with brain freeze. Again the ping came.
    “What?” she shouted into the atmosphere. “What do you want?” But she was curious about who it was, so she decided to tolerate her annoying online toils to investigate. Can in hand, she sauntered to the computer and seated herself, opening the screen. It punished her eyes with that wicked sharp glare and she adjusted the screen to accommodate her eyes a bit better.
    It was Icarus. Krista smiled.
    “Hey you!” she wrote and watched the pulsing cursor.
    “Hi Suicide Queen,” Icarus answered and the two engaged in some small talk over the boring events of the day before Doug started talking about the briefcase he wanted to retrieve, but failed to catch.
    “Why the hell would you do something that stupid? You could have drowned, you know?” she said.
    “I know, but I simply have to know what is in the case. It is driving me crazy!” she read, and shook her head.
    “You should just give a thing like that to the police, Doug. You never know what is in it,” Krista advised him.
    In his ill-lit room, Doug watched her message come through, confirming what he thought she would say. Like all the other people, she did not grasp the urgency he felt for the case and its contents. Nobody seemed to understand the things which happened to him, so he decided to change the subject and they spoke for a while longer before Doug excused himself and said goodbye to his Suicide Queen for the night.
    Before he went to bed, he thought about the swimming tryouts and how Mr Browning said he had potential to be really good. It made him proud to know somewhere he was doing something right. It was raining outside. Jean had been complaining all week about the unusually arid conditions in the city of late and Doug imagined how happy his mother must be that her precious garden would not be wilting away after all. The rain pattered against his small, shuttered window behind his drawn curtains.
    ”Good sleep weather,” Doug thought as he sank snugly into bed and turned off his bedside lamp s that the room was beautifully illuminated by the ever–so-slight blue light of his aquarium. Tonight he could not hear the bubbles, as the rain hammered on the walls and glass. For a change he felt utterly peaceful and accomplished and sleep came easily, for once.
    Under his feet the loose stones and broken pieces of tar cracked as he walked, pushing his scooter through the wind. He was so glad there was no traffic today and no motorists snooping to what he was doing. Of course there were no cars – it was late at night and the stars above him glimmered over the dismal stretch of empty road. Black and warm from the day it quietly