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blondemoment22

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He hovers, eyes glazed over, reflecting the wind that wimples the blanket of black water below. Air suffocates him, sends him swaying just a hair closer to the edge, so he stops breathing.
    "Thank you," he murmurs to nothing for pulling him back.
    There is no reply.
    And he regrets for a moment that he didn't take enough pills, didn't force down more whiskey, didn't sharpen the knife enough.
    The wind rocks him to and fro on the edge of the bridge. He wishes it would collapse under him and do the job he's been working at for years.
    "Please," he hisses, blood tickling his chin as his teeth plunge through the delicate skin of his lower lip.
    There is no answer.
    And he remembers for a moment her tongue around his, her teeth pulling on his lower lip, soft moans, creaks from her ancient, protesting mattress, echoing what his father would think.
    But daddy wasn't there those nights when he touched heaven. And daddy wasn't there those nights when he crawled inside just before sunrise, drunk and coked up, crying, each time that he found her on a new mattress, using her teeth on another boy.
    The diamond ring burns through his pocket, the one he'll never give her now. And along with it, his mother's necklace.
    "Walnut, it's okay," she croons.
    He never liked peanuts. Especially not the ones at baseball games.
    "Too much salt," he'd complain. And his mother would laugh, until the salt in her mouth turned red where the bullet went through, and he washed her hair out with all the salt water he had left, and he licked the rest where it ran down from his eyes, the bridge of his nose.
    "No, it's not okay," he chokes.
    But he can feel his heart beating.
    He can feel it and he turns his back on the calmly rippling blackness, and he knows that he won't be the one to break the surface.