Voices

He sat on the ledge of the bridge, his head in his hands. Cars passed behind him, zooming in blinding flashes of light and speed and silence. In front of him, for as long as he could see, was a dark and swirling mass of water, rising, and falling, and reflecting every glimmer on the horizon. The buildings were everywhere, it seemed, looming over the city like grim tombs of gray and black. The man just stood there, unsmiling and tense. He saw it all, he took it in; the city, the lights, the people, and the cars. He had loved this city since he was seven, and it suited him just fine, the bustle and the traffic and the lights. But it was incomplete to him – incomplete without the shouting people, and honking cars, and the splash of water against the concrete. It had been incomplete for a year now, and today, he decided, today he couldn't take it anymore.

One year ago, he was in a car crash. It was bloody, and expensive, and tough for everybody involved. But he was left with scars that he couldn't erase by forgiveness.

He longed to hear it again, the city where he grew up, the music of the cars and the people and the backdrop of water; trickling, swirling, crashing, and splashing. He longed to hear the voice of his son, who had just turned four, and couldn't understand why his daddy wouldn't listen to him anymore. His wife, whose husky voice had become an indelible part of his adult life, her tinkling laughter, her reprimands, the music of her feet as she ran across the wooden floor. He used to call his mother every month, and he could hear it in his head now, her cracking voice, still filled with the enthusiasm and joy of older days.

He never enjoyed listening to music in his younger years. He never developed an ear to good music till he met his wife, who sang softly to him heart-rending renditions of old eastern music. He could hear her voice now, if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear flashes of the conversations they had when they were in college, and he remembered them screaming at each other when they fought. He could almost hear them now, obscenities and sorrows and promises of love, all bundled under his tongue just waiting to be heard.

What is sound? He rolled the word over in his mouth. Sound. Music. Voices. He could feel his tongue moving, and he formed the words painstakingly, but as much as he tried, he couldn't hear himself. Is this it, then? He was talking, he could feel it, and anybody around him would be sure to hear him. But I will talk, he told himself, I will talk. His feet dangled and his hands slipped dangerously as the spray of water hit him.

Okay, he told himself aloud. And a woman walking on the bridge glanced over at him. He could feel their gazes on him, and he could see their lips move as they talked. What were they saying? He thought to himself. Did he say that aloud? He didn't know. Still he talked, saying every word carefully, articulating every sound. For who? He didn't know.

I'm going now, he said. They'll haunt me, these voices, they'll haunt me till I jump. They'll haunt me till the water slowly strangles me, and even then they won't be silent. And he saw the people staring at him, alarmed. Did they think he was mad? Was he mad? The deathly silence settled in his ears again. Maybe I am mad, he decided. Maybe these voices never happened. Maybe it's all my twisted memory, my made-up salvation.

Shakily, he got to his feet. This is it, then, he shouted. He was breathless now, but he shouted. And then in one swift move - was it an accident? - he took one step forward and fell through the air, as limp as a ragdoll, as weightless as a feather. And there were screams, and honking cars, and the immense splash of water as he crashed into the sea, but he did not hear it. He could only hear the voices that took over his head, the voices that he longed to hear again.