The metal blade runs across the railing, screeching like a car crash as the sparks flew from the contact point and dances in the moonlight and fades into emptiness. Fade, that sounds good to me. Just fade away, never to be heard of again. The rusty blade screeches on the railing once more. The dingy little pocket knife is getting sharper. I just want to fade... that is why I have this rusty blade. The railing scrapes the rust right off the blade. The shiny edge of metal is warm from friction. Screeeeech! The blade sparks with a passion across the railing. Ah! Red flooded down my forearm from the cut of my hand. Damn knife. Guess it is sharp enough. A calm cool night, perfect. It just rained. I like to come outside after a rain storm. The air is nice a moist with a chill hanging around. A chill that needs no coat. The blade rests on the railing. Screech! That sounds sends a chill down my spine. Holding the knife firm in my hand. This knife is my ticket. I’m leaving this place tonight.

The unfinished bridge. Or as I would come to call it, my grave. It is the perfect spot. My life feels like a bridge to nowhere. They started this bridge with hopes of finishing it. But a lack of budget, interest, and a labor strike caused the bridge to never be complete. Like my life. I am a punching bag. Look at me, I’m just not the person that gets things. I “earn” the consolation prizes of life. Nothing comes easy but rejection. The moonlight starts to disappear as the bridge fades into the Darkness. Darkness is my only friend. It hides my pain so I do not have to look at it anymore. The stone is cold underfoot as small bits of gravel fall from the bridge into the calm water below. The creek at the end of the bridge is my last sight of this world. I hop down to sit on the end of the bridge, my legs dangling off the edge. The sharp edge of the blade flickers in the remaining light. Then the Darkness comes overhead and communes all. No light, no hope. Heee-ah! I look at my hand with the red line cut through my palm as the elixir of life steadily falls to my elbow. The pain shoots through that arm.

The blade comes to my skin. The scarred tissue on my wrist feels the cool metal of the knife. The tender skin breaks at a flick of the wrist. The metal plunges into my skin. Red flows from the wound as the blade starts to move down the wrist. Red, red and more red as the cursed fluid leaves my body. Good riddance. Hot tears come from my eyes as a reflex. I do not want them there; just one more thing to go wrong. Boom! The sky gets angry and claps with a thunderous noise. The blade leaves my skin. Water from the heavens hits my forehead, drip. Drip, drip, Boom! Light flashes and crashes to my right, cutting a tree in two. Cut right down the middle. One flash and explosion of damage and then nothing. Ten feet off. The water falls with power. It comes down like a flood. The water is abundant and salty to the taste. It washes the red from my wrist. I can’t even kill myself right. The water makes a noise with the creek and the water rises to meet my feet. Well, at least I could drown. The heat of the earth increases with rage as the rain hits the dirt and sizzles, forming a fog-ish steam. The water of the falling rain turns warm with sorrow. The world starts to spin as the fog grows thicker and thicker until I simply cannot see. The white steam does not carry heat as it engulfs me. My misty prison is so thick I think my knife could cut into it. Then it stops spinning. The fog clears and I am not on the bridge anymore.

A man sits on a work bench, his back turned to me as his shoulders jump up and down. He is crying. I reach out my left hand to comfort him. My hand shakes with nerves. Though this man appears to be right in front of my face, as I reach out I miss him entirely. Suddenly, he is a world away as a great hallway appears between us. The walls of this place are barren. All I want is to be closer to him. I stand up… Time slows down as my body shoots up to stand straight as an arrow. The blade falls to the floor with a clink and a clamor. My feet move without consulting my brain. I am running. Down the hall to this man. He seems to only get further with every step. I want to know him. I will know him. I need to know him. The hallway becomes a blur as time catches up. And just like that, I am close enough to place my hand on his back. He is full of muscle with great broad shoulders. He wears a rough leather vest with a soft blue shirt underneath. My blood stains his shoulder. As he stops crying my hand shakes. My fingers feel power come to them from his shoulder. He stands up from his stool, straightening his back as his hair falls down. Judging by the length of this person’s hair, maybe I jumped the gun saying it was a man. A hand rests on top of mine. The skin of this his - or her - hand is soft and plush. The smooth fingers feel good on my skin. The hand has skin like a newborn. It stays silent. The fingers of the hand just rub my scarred left wrist. This action comforts me, but who is this? Why are they crying? And how did I get here?

“Excuse me, but who are you?” I asked. Silence. “Are you okay?” Silence. “Why were you crying?” Silence. “Where are we?” Silence. “This is not real.” The rubbing stops. “I’m dreaming. There is no way this is real.” The hand removes itself from mine. I take my hand back. I look on the floor for my knife.

“Why must you cut me?” A booming voice fills the room.

“Excuse me,” I said, not knowing who this person is, “I never hurt you.” The person at the work bench moves but I cannot see their face. A rough and rugged hand grabs my arm and holds it with force in front of my face.

“Here.” The callused hand would not let go and forced me to look at my wrist. “Why do you turn your head?” it asked me.

“I just do not want to see it.”

“No, you just want to die by it.” It lets go and my hand falls to my side. It turns to its work bench, hammering away and making some unseen item. Its shoulders are in the way.

“Why do you care? You have no idea what it is like. I used to have hope, but they beat it out of me. All I hear is no. Rejection is the only thing I am good at! My heart is more scarred than my wrist. See? Even you turn your back to me. No cares.”

“No one?” the voice says as the tools stop on the bench.

“Yes, no one. I am alone. I am not the person that wins. My entire existence is to lose, get passed over, beaten, bruised, and I'm worthless.” The word leaves my mouth and materializes in the air as if it could fly over to It at the bench. The word hits Its ears and the tools fall from Its hands. It nose sniffles and Its shoulder jumps again.

“Worthless?” it says through the tears.

“Yes, worthless.”

“How do you know that?”

“Life killed me.”

“Life does not kill. Life has purpose. With every life comes a definite service. A service trusted only to that one who the service was given.”

“You don’t know me! You cannot judge me! This is my life! I can do what I want!”

“And you chose to throw it away?” The red blood on my wrist smears on my pant leg and drips onto the floor. Drip, drip, drip.

“I… I guess… what do you know?” I turn to walk away. I hear a great sigh like booming thunder as the salty tears hit the work bench.

“136,567”

“What?”

“136,567”

“What does that mean?”

“That is the number of hairs on your head.” It reaches out and grabbed my arm. A gentle hand with soft skin holds the back of my hand in Its palm. Its other hand covers my scarred wrist. The soft skin glides across my hand and my wounds are healed. It shows me the palm of the hand that healed me and upon the palm is a picture of me carved into it. And just like that, I am back on the bridge, the rusty blade next to me. There is still time to finish what I started. Bending down to pick up the knife, I stop and look up to the dark sky. Where before there was nothing but darkness, I now see one single star. Suddenly, I can no longer stand the sight of the knife. I use my shoe to kick it into the water. As soon as the knife hits with a plop sound, the rain stops. Then a rainbow appeared….