Flam sighed deeply, and leaned his elbows against the guardrail. Behind him, he could hear the well-practiced spiel of a tour guide, followed by the pattering of hoofsteps; the squeaking, crackling voice of an adolescent colt spoke of the wonders of the Neighagra Falls, and the legendary stories of the various heroes-slash-idiots who had survived going over the ancient waterfalls in barrels. He slumped a little further into his folded forelegs when he heard the click-clacks of cameras behind him. He’d been here before, and had no interest in hearing about the Maid of the Mist again.
His brother was in the hospital, yet again. His beloved Trixie was angry with them both, yet again. Nothing about this morning was new to him… except maybe the safe, secure feeling of having his hind hooves firmly planted on the bridge. For the first time, he felt no itching urge to climb up a little higher.
It wasn’t the first time he’d looked down at a river.
Flam swallowed back the bile that had gathered in his throat. That one long, horrible, almost endless afternoon had been over a decade ago, and yet it was still etched in his mind as deeply as any other scar.
Tears were drying on his flaky, freckled cheeks as he blinked his puffed-out eyes. He was wearing the same stupid second-hoof tuxedo he’d bought for prom, which now seemed like an eternity ago. He’d felt such a rush of unbelievable happiness when he’d pinned that corsage to Trixie’s dress---how had things gone so wrong since then?
The tails of his coat were trailing off to his right, carried by the high wind. He glanced up at the sky. The pegasi were working hard tugging the clouds to and fro, keeping the high-altitude winds the birds needed for their migration. But each one’s view of the bridge below were blocked by the tufts of cirrus they were holding, and besides, none of them could make the dive in time to… He looked back to the water, propping his elbows on the guardrail. The early Spring had clogged the river with runoff, making it churn and eddy below him, frothing over the outcropping rocks. He’d always hated the Spring. Why had he agreed on a Spring wedding?
Because she wanted it, he thought grimly. She wanted the daffodil-and-tulip bouquet. Threw that away a bit early, didn’t you, Tri---
But his thoughts snipped off at her name, as if he couldn’t even bear to hear it in his head. The very thought of her big, gleaming violet eyes made his heart seize up. Unbidden, a sickening thought crept up: Did she cry out his name when Flim was inside her?
He looked down at his coat, and felt a dark slam in his heart when he saw the flecks of blood on the cumberbund. He had no clue how long he’d been standing there. Everything from the past few hours had mashed together in his mind, but a few scenes were still as fresh and as crisp and as horrible as if they were still happening in front of him: the scream from his bride-to-be, the sound of the table crashing over, and the look of horror in his brother’s eyes a second before everything went fuzzy. And the one word he’d managed to get out before the first blow landed.
Flam rubbed a hoof across his face and leaned his chin against his ankles. Flim had shouted out his name, and then, well… he remembered a crunch, and the weird way his twin’s back left molars were suddenly touching his top right ones. Mouths weren’t supposed to move like that. His maw looked like a broken marionette, and for the first time Flam realized that he’d broken his jaw. He let his eyes drift down to the hooves still propped on the railing. He had no idea he could hit that---
“Girl, or money?”
The voice was like a needle to a balloon, snapping him out of his thoughts, and he whirled on the spot, slipping a bit against the damp railing. “Wha---?!”
“I said,” the stranger repeated, “Girl? Or money?”
He stammered out the first idiotic thing to come to mind: “Wh-what, are you a pimp or s-something?”
He didn’t think those dark, furrowed brows could get any more sunken, but they pulled together in an even deeper anger. “Oh, I’m a donkey, so I must be a pimp?! Is that it, you little shit-for-brains?”
“No!” How strange---ten seconds ago he was staring over the side of a bridge, and now he suddenly felt fear for his life? “No, not at all! I---I just---you asked about girls and money, and I---I just assumed---“
“Well, don’t assume, kid. It makes an ass out of ‘U’ and ‘ME’!”
Flam hadn’t realized it was possible to laugh without cracking a smile, but somehow, this weary-looking donkey managed it. It looked surreal, horrible.
“Now,” he said, taking a step closer, “Why are you looking over that bridge, hm? Was it a girl? Or money?”
He licked his dry lips, but somehow pulled himself together. “Neither. I was admiring the scenery.”
The donkey spent a moment unhitching his cart, and then took a seat beside him. “Hm. Nice scenery.”
“…Yeah.”
For a moment, they both looked down at the river. Then the donkey pointed. “Hey, see that?”
Flam squinted. Was he looking at the piece of driftwood? “What?”
“I dunno, but to me it looks like…” His head slowly turned, but Flam didn’t meet his eye. “…A big pile of bullshit.”
Then he did look up.
“It’s a girl, isn’t it?”
He looked back down.
“Look, kid. I can tell that tux is second-hoof, so you’re probably not the type who just lost millions in a casino.” He snorted. “Besides, there ain’t many buffalo around these parts, setting up their blackjack tables and one-armed bandits---“
“That’s racist.”
Flam jostled when a firm, surprisingly strong hoof prodded his shoulder. The donkey was facing him now, staring him down.
“You wanna throw your life away? Fine. Be my guest. Celestia knows I’m not jumping in there after you. But---“
And just like that, it clicked. He could feel it---the very image forever searing in his memory. For a split second, the hooded, ancient eyes widened, and almost misted---and it was gone.
“---Listen to someone who’s been around longer than you’ve had teeth in your thick head.” The hoof prodded again, right at the core of his being. “You think you lost your heart to some girl? Well, let me tell you something, kid: She’s. Still. Out. There.”
The finality of the old burro’s words startled him, but not enough to steal his voice. “H-how can you be so sure?” he whispered.
“You can’t,” he retorted as he turned to leave. “But, the way I see it, kid, you got two choices---either you jump to your death, and have everypony forget you… or you can stand back down and make your life worthwhile.”
The hindleg that he had raised caught on a wire, and he shakily lowered it back to the ground. He felt the bridge gently sway beneath him, and a shocking surge of seasickness hit him right in the diaphragm. He could still hear the donkey’s retreating hoofbeats as he leaned over the railing and heaved out the remainders of his own rehearsal dinner...
Flam closed his eyes, and let his hooftip move towards the bulge in his pocket. He’d done it. He’d come back to face this bridge, this roaring chasm, this faceless demon that had haunted his dreams since his nineteenth birthday. And he’d come out on top.
The little box he had tucked away was still there, and he knew for a fact that his marefriend was waiting for him back at the hotel. She had hurt him terribly… but that was in the past. And he knew for a fact that he could have done something tremendously worse to her, and to everyone else who had ever claimed to love him.
“I’m coming back home, Trixie,” he breathed into the misty spray that blew back across his face.
He didn’t look back.
Author's Note
I don't always write about suicide...
but when I do, I write about ponies.
