It was a cold, grey day. It suited my mood. As I stood there on the bridge with the sky pissing down upon me, I thought about the night before. Only a few hours removed, yet sleeplessly delirious, I had to embellish the details to account for my own arrival here. A fight, tears here, a drink or two there, a drive to clear my mind; and it all grew somewhat linear.
Cinching the hood tighter around my face, I stepped back from the railing. The fog was thicker below the bridge. The river was heard but unseen, same as the morning's traffic. Passersby could be heard on their approach and retreat into the distance with very little differentiation. Even at this distance, I could only glimpse a brief, lighted indication of each vehicle’s immediacy. It was a comfort at first to feel an isolation of sorts in this weather, but some level of worry began to creep in as I thought that, even along the highway, this weather has reduced my entire world to near-nothing beyond arm’s length.
I've read that smell is the sense most closely associated with memory. You can take this as my testimonial. The fog hadn’t lifted, and wouldn't for hours yet, but the scene is seared in my memory. The sound was a booming combination of twisted metal and broken glass, but the fog stood stagnant, the smell of rubber, smoke, and gas lingered. The flames were bright enough to see from my side of the bridge.
I could hear no cars approaching, so, even in my perceived solitude, I felt safe crossing the road to the accident. The smell grew strong in my nostrils and my eyes burned. I could taste the fuel and feel the heat on my cheeks as I neared the mangled mess. The sounds of the driver’s futile struggle to escape the cabin became apparent as the rear bumper came into view, the personalized license plate frame I bought her for our first anniversary staring me in the face.
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