Free From a Dead Sleep by John A. Daly

9
    T he imposing howl of the Nova’s shot muffler wreaked pandemonium across the otherwise tranquil forest. The smell of exhaust clouded out the usual scent of pine and mountain water.
    With the sole of his boot clamped to the brake pedal at the center of Meyers Bridge, Sean’s neck swung from window to window looking for the police cruiser or any sign of Lumbergh or Jefferson. Nothing. He couldn’t believe they had already come and left, but that had to be the case. They had left the station for the bridge long before Zed arrived to pick him up.
    With his ample back pressed into the deteriorating vinyl car seat, he found himself gazing out through the open passenger window and along the fast-moving water that roared steadily below. The river’s path disappeared around a distant barrage of trees.
    A suffocating feeling of insignificance overcame the small town security guard, and he coughed on his own breath. He popped the transmission into park, stepped out of the car, and crossed to the railing where the stranger had let himself fall. He dropped to his hands and knees, and extended his head over the guardrail, scanning for a splatter of blood along the metal and wood planking. He spent several minutes doing this, occasionally using his knees to work himself to the side. Nothing.
    Sean’s jaw squared, and he shook his head in disgust. He felt his blood boil, and he raised his head to the sky, aiming a scary glare at God. Sean was a Christian and never questioned his faith, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why his Maker seemed to take such delight in hanging him out to dry. It was as if he was a prop for the Big Man’s amusement.
    He thought back to the sight of the stranger that sat on the edge of the bridge mere hours earlier. The hopelessness he must have felt, deciding that there was no other solution than to rid the world of his existence. At what point had enough become enough? At what point was the battle no longer worth fighting?
    Sean knew hopelessness.
    He had promised himself countless times before last night that he would never let it get that bad again.
    The drinking.
    No more blacking out , he’d sometimes tell his reflection in the mirror. Memories of old friends and family, who had long written him off, drifted through his mind as they often had. He understood their discouragement with his inability to come to odds with his problem. He knew they were right, but he always had an excuse for why they were wrong. He could understand what might put that man on the bridge.
    A sudden, cool breeze whipped against his face as he climbed back to his feet. His right eye started to water up. He quickly used the back of his hand to sweep away all moisture. Crying is for sissies. Sean Coleman doesn’t cry.
    A moment later he was back in the car. His foot left the brake pedal and he pumped the gas, sending gravel and dust in his wake as he sped across the bridge. A quarter of a mile up the road, he passed the hunched-over frame of Ruth Golding who was clad in a white knit sweater and retrieving a handful of envelopes from her mailbox. She waved to Sean as he flew by, like she always did with any car that happened to be driving by while she was outside. He ignored her as usual, but then suddenly slammed on the brakes when a thought arose. He quickly backed up and popped his head out his window.
    “Ruth!” he yelled.
    The elderly woman was frail and slow, and had probably spent the last ten minutes crossing her property to reach the road. She was bent forward at the waist, retrieving a small American flag from the ground. Years ago, she’d started using the old classroom flag with its pencil mast as an outgoing mail alert after the plastic red one on her mailbox had broken off. The position of her body revealed more than Sean was ready for with the horizon of her pale blue underwear poking up from her skirt.
    He looked away in disgust and again called out her name. Once upright and favoring her hip,