Bryanna Payne

Despair

I can see the rocks at the bottom, the water’s so clear. I wish it was murky. That there was mystery. “A little girl died here last year. Round this time. Sad story. ‘Bout five, six years old.” The woman beside me drags from an e-cigarette. “It just, whoosh”—her hand dipped below her waist— “took her under. Smashed her little skull into the bedrock. I wasn’t here, but they told me it was really gruesome. Sorry. You not from here?” Her smoke clouds my view of the river.