Man on the Edge

People had begun to gather around the Great Bridge, a mass of bodies tightly packed together, their murmurs rising in pitch. It was impossible to ignore the stirring energy in the air—it was as though a strange fire had ignited within me, compelling me to follow the unfolding drama. I joined the swelling crowd, squeezing my way through, but no one would give me a straight answer when I asked what was happening. They only said, "The show is about to start."

I had to know. My curiosity clawed at me, gnawing, relentless.

Pushing through the crowd, I reached the front row, the barrier closest to the bridge. And that was when I saw it. A man stood at the edge, arms stretched wide as though embracing the setting sun. I wondered—was he going to jump? Would I witness death today?

My heart pounded, my chest tightened. I felt a surge of excitement, a strange and dark thrill. I wanted to see him leap.

No one comes for a happy ending when the spectacle of blood is the real draw.

The crowd was a frenzied swarm, circling the bridge like vultures scenting a carcass, waiting for the body to fall so they could feast. Their impatience was palpable, and their thirst for blood—irrevocable. Their voices rose, unified, a terrible harmony of hunger.

"Jump!"

The man on the bridge snapped back into reality, shaken by the collective roar. For a moment, he teetered, nearly losing his balance, and I held my breath, watching him slide toward the edge. But then—he recovered. He found his footing.

A wave of hatred surged from the crowd, and they began to jeer. He hadn’t jumped.

"Jump!" they screamed, their voices like venom.

The man stared down at the chasm below, his face twisted with uncertainty. This wasn’t his plan. He hadn’t come here to end his life. He only wanted to enjoy the sunset. To witness that fleeting beauty, to be one with the moment. But the crowd wouldn’t let him escape. They screamed louder, more desperately, drowning out his attempts to explain.

"Jump!"

"Jump!"

"Jump!"

He faltered, the panic setting in. Desperation clawed at his mind. He turned, as if to escape, to flee back down the bridge, but the mob was already blocking his way. They were closing in, their cruel resolve stronger than any sense of mercy. They had already decided his fate.

The crowd surged, hurling anything they could find—rocks, bottles, whatever they could grab—each object a silent accusation, a plea for the final act.

Realizing there was no way out, tears began to fall from his eyes as he climbed back to the top, trembling, pleading for mercy, for them to let him go. He begged for his life, his voice breaking, his sobs echoing through the air.

But they wouldn’t stop. They wouldn’t relent. Their only words were:

"Jump!"

At that moment, I did something I would never be able to undo. Quietly, I climbed the bridge, slipping behind the man, and I saw him, broken and trembling, a shadow of what he once was. I knew what I had to do.

I kicked him in the back.

He fell.

The sickening thud of his body hitting the cold, unforgiving concrete below echoed through the still air. For an instant, time itself seemed to hold its breath. Then, the crowd erupted. They cheered. They screamed with exhilaration, their joy as savage as any beast.

As I stood there, watching his lifeless body crumple to the ground, I felt eyes on me. I looked down—down at the vultures gathered around his body—and I saw them, their hungry gaze fixed on me. In unison, they screamed their demand:

"Jump!"