Burning Bridges

Sharp and clean, the chilled autumn air trickled down the back of his throat as he filled his lungs with a deep, slow breath. Sighing heavily, his breath billowed about him in a smoky cloud and then was gone in a moment, carried away on the fickle breeze.

Walking with an unhurried pace, he made his way to the edge of the meandering river and stopped, looking at the modest bridge that sat across its waters. Long and narrow, it was built of thick logs and planks of solid oak, milled from trees that had long ago loomed over the very banks they now spanned. It had been new when he first laid eyes upon it, filled with splinters and the smells of sap and sawdust and sweat, still warm from the carpenter's hands and humming with the blows of hammers. Not anymore. Now it was smooth with use and gray with years, the sounds of building long since replaced with those of decay; the creaking of rotting timbers and the groan of tired beams longing to lay their burdens aside and rest.

Dropping his eyes, he stepped onto the bridge, his footfalls echoing out over the surface of the water with a hollow sound, as if someone were knocking at the door to an empty room. The river murmured at the disturbance. The old metal can in his hand, covered in rust and faded, flaking paint, sloshed loudly in the stillness of the night as it struck his leg with each long stride. Barely legible, the word “kerosene” was written in blocky black letters on the side.

For a moment he stopped and glanced over the railing. His gaze fixed on the murky water flowing far below. Moonlight outlined his reflection, pale as death; his expressions changing and shifting with the current, grotesquely exaggerated in the cold stream, eyes strange and fevered. He lifted a shaking hand to his face, felt the unchanged, placid features. Clenching his eyes tightly, he wiped away the cold sweat beginning to bead on his brow. He muttered a curse, lost on the wind, and turned away.

Twisting the cap off of the battered can, he tipped it slowly and watched as the kerosene spilled onto the warped oaken planks at his feet. His nostrils flared slightly as the fumes rose to meet him, and a grim smile pulled at the corners of his hard mouth. A low, harsh chuckle escaped his lips as he began to make his way up and down the length of the bridge, back and forth, and again.

The scent of kerosene grew heavy, overpowering. He felt himself becoming lightheaded and stumbled towards the end of the bridge, stepping onto the thick black mud of the far bank. He sat sluggishly on the mossy trunk of a fallen willow, wet with dew. Sitting there, he stared at the kerosene-soaked bridge long after the cool night air had cleared his head. Finally, he stood and reached into the deep pocket of his threadbare jacket, taking out a book of matches.

“One left”, he said to no one in particular. His voice was strained and quiet, a whisper lost in the steady rush of the river.

“Just one…”

Striking the remaining match, he held it up against the night sky and watched it sputter and spit, the blackened sliver of wood twisting and wilting in the ravenous flame. He waited, waited until the fire licked at the tips of his fingers and he could wait no longer. With a snap of his wrist he tossed it onto the bridge, his gaze following it as it fell, slowly. He stood there for a long time, his eyes empty and unblinking, hands trembling at his sides, his ragged breath catching in his throat as he watched the blaze spread across the weathered bridge like a billion fiery insects swarming over a hulking carcass.

He swallowed hard until the lump in his chest disappeared, and then turned and began to walk. He could hear the roar of the flames still, louder now than the river flowing below. He could feel the heat of it, washing over his back; smell the smoke, thick in his lungs. His shadow, cast long and dark before him, flickered and jumped about, a caricature of his pained gait. He walked, his pace slowly quickening, looking straight ahead at the cramped and narrow pathway that lay ahead, until it had all faded away.

Far behind him the blackened oak turned to gray ash and floated away on the gentle current, while the last of the bright, glowing sparks drifted into the sky, higher and higher, until at last they faded and were lost in the glow of the distant stars.