lolabobs | Flashlash set 88. Prompt 2

flashslash is a great community. The idea is (I'm sure I've talked about it before!) Is to take 4 prompt words and write for 8 minutes; incorporating each of the prompt words. It's all about writing without fear and expectations.

Well. Today I Flashslashed and thought I'd share. But Beware. It's BLEAK.

Took me a little longer than 8 minutes - 'cos I didn't wanna stop until it was done. But no editing other than typos

Set 2 bridge foreigner acknowledge/d fry/ing

He used to be compassionate; used to have a heart. Used to believe in people and offer trust. He had ideals, hopes, patience. Somewhere along the way though, that had all gone and now he gazed up at the blond on the bridge with nothing but exasperation and irritation.

Why did all the jumpers come to his bridge to do the deed? Foreigners, locals, the lost and the desperate – all seemed to think his little stretch of the highway was the place to go to end their sad, sorry little lives. As if jumping would take them anywhere but from the fry pan into the fire.

And he was the one left to pick up the pieces. Although, Thank God, not literally – that was down to the divers and the river patrol boats. The one blessing he could see. He still had to deal with the irate drivers though, and the traffic snarl ups that would last way longer than this no-hoper’s empty life.

And he could start none of that ‘til the dreamer took a step – backwards or forwards - and ended the melodramatic little scene now playing out. And that’s what he meant about compassion – once he would have wanted to save the guy – now he just wanted whichever was the quickest option.

He walked up to the guy. Bedraggled blond hair hanging over a crumpled face. A thick ‘tache adding definition to a face that didn’t look the type – until he spotted the holster and sighed. Cop. They were the worst. What was the saying – you can’t bluff a bluffer? Something like that – either way you couldn’t talk down a cop. They knew there’d be no cosy room and help waiting. Knew life really *was* that bad and likely wouldn’t get better.

“”Hey Man.” – he had to try anyway. Part of the job description – and maybe the distant traces of his lost humanity? “Hey man. Wanna talk?”

The eyes that turned to him were blank and empty – the head movement the only acknowledgement of his presence. If the eyes truly were the window to the soul, then this guy had already checked out – it didn’t look as if jumping would make much of a difference to him.

Behind him he heard sirens and cars screeching to a halt – running footsteps of an out of shape body. Captain Dobing? Dobrey? from Bay City – So Blond boy must be one of his.

“Hutchinson.. Hutch.. C’mon son..”

Ah – and now he remembered. Kenneth Hutchinson. The cop with his face all over the papers. The cop who’d taken out Gunther Industries – and Gunther himself. The cop with a dead partner.

He stole a glance at the man once more, a hollow feeling stealing over him, his stomach churning. Then turned away; offering this lost soul a tiny shred of dignity; squeezing his eyes tight as he heard the Captain’s gasp of horror, seconds before the wind stole the sound altogether.

He muttered no prayer as he turned back to the road and the waiting traffic. His faith had gone the way of his compassion; besides, he had a job to do.