Don't Drink Bees

I lay on the damp ground, listening to the throb of my heart. A bomb inside me about to explode. A clock counting down the seconds.

I lifted my head. In the distance I could see the lighted outline of the bridge leading into town. Pretty. But also dark and cold. Streetlights blurred with stars, tears with sweat.

Looking directly below myself, I saw broken glass on the edge of the ledge, then nothing. The pit of the quarry was slate gray. I knelt. Why all the suffering, the pain, then the emptiness? I turned my head upwards. I don't know for what reason. Perhaps I thought He'd put an answer in the sky for me. Position the heavenly bodies in words I could understand. Transposed newspaper — white stars on black night. Yes, if He existed. I stayed long until gravel imprinted my knees. I stared hard until the white sparks danced and played before my eyes. I'd almost think my answer had arrived when I'd blink, and they were still again. I wondered if it were ever coming. Cold normally would've prompted me to abandon the quarry's edge, but this night I was numb.

I shifted, scattering small stones. A number tumbled over the edge. They clattered discordantly, then were silent. My life. I was a silent stone at the end of my fall, broken. There was nothing else.

Soft blackness called to me, "It's easy. It's meant to be. Follow your brothers."

And I shouted, "I'm coming!" Rose. Moving feet.

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