One - Bryson
War doesn’t really change. It’s dark and heavy, full of gore and trauma. The people and environment might change, but the content doesn’t. War has the same basic foundation as a heavy metal song. Drums, guitars, bass, screaming or singing. Guns, tanks, fire, blood, death.
I used to love heavy metal for that reason; it’s different, and it’s real. Or maybe that’s why I like heavy metal; they conditioned me into the army, so maybe it was me turning everything I liked to be like it to accept my fate as a soldier, just like my brother, dad, and grandad. Now it just reminds me of horrors and the reality of wars I’ve seen up close. It’s just a backdrop of guns and screaming, fire and death.
‘Stop playing that noise, Bryson. Gives me a headache.’
My mum’s voice runs through my head as the song comes to its crescendo; a sign that I need to do this.
Dying how I want is better than dying in some useless war because war will never develop and progress. I’ll always be a surname, a camouflage uniform serving King and country. If I die how I want, it’ll be me. I’ll be Bryson Hale.
The only signal of life out here is the orange hue below the bridge, which isn’t far away. In the past half an hour I’ve been sitting here, no traffic has come in or out. This place is the definition of a sleepy village in the English countryside. That’s why it’s perfect; no one will notice. They’ll notice the random car, I’m sure, but by then it’ll be too late.
This is the only way to do it; it’s not like anyone would miss me. I’m just a number, a soldier, a part of a collective. A surname. It’s been my destiny since I was born, and despite protests, and years of studying and proving I could do something else, the pressure to conform to a family tradition won out. I’ve always lived in Charlie’s shadow, trying to live up to his ghost.
As I step onto the pavement, the bridge comes into view and the bright haze of the motorway below lights up the pitch black of the sleepy village.
The hammering in my chest reminds me of the explosions, the videos of wars gone by, the soundtrack to my life, even if I asked to be in a different genre. I want this, the sweet silence of death. The fate brought on to the countless soldiers before me that have sacrificed for King and country, those innocent victims who just signed up to defend their way of life whether for right or wrong. Sacrifice myself so I don’t have to go and crumble like the wimp I am, go out in my own way rather than be behind the trigger, behind the wheel of a tank.
I stare at my phone as it buzzes. ‘Mate, beer tomorrow when you’re back? Day off for the win!’ Matt’s message sounds hopeful, something I’m envious of.
The bridge isn’t that high up, but if I fall off, it would be a miracle if I live. That’s the point, I suppose. The question is if I jump, will it be more reliable than falling?
A few cars drive up and disappear before I hear them come out the other side.
Bile swishes in my stomach, tears form in my eyes, voices fill my brain.
’Emotion is for weak, Hale.’
‘In the army, we don’t do emotion, son.’
‘Toughen up, dear boy. Charlie managed it.’
‘You’ll be deployed in a week, Hale. Time to serve again.’
They can’t have me; they can’t mould me to be what my dad wants anymore, and I can’t be their little toy.
The bridge’s wall is only up to the middle of my shin.
Not great at saving people, really.
I anchor my foot on the tiny concrete ledge on the other side.
It won’t be that painful. Impact, a car on its way to work, or a truck. Quick, less pain than a bullet. That’s if I survive the impact.
That’s when the yellow illuminates around me, burning my eyes.
I glare in its beam like a cat in danger as the car door flies open.
“Oh my God, please come back!”
She appears in the light, and my foot immediately comes back. I know it’s completely irrational, but she looks angelic. She approaches me slowly, her hands outstretched as if I’m on the end of an invisible rope – one that’s under her control, and with it, so am I.
“Please come back. Look, I… I was on my way to work, but come with me, I’ll fix you a cup of tea or coffee, or something, and we can just talk,” she says. She’s not from around here, I can tell by the posh accent coming through.
“You have no idea,” I retort.
“Then tell me. Just… come back, get in my car and I’ll listen. Please.” Her voice is both high and low in what I assume is fright, but her body is still shining like an angel.
This won’t help me.
She can’t help me, despite the halo made of car lights and the desperate doe-eyes she’s giving me.
“Whatever it is, I’ll listen and not speak. I just want to take you back, make you a drink. Hell, I’ll make you breakfast; I make a mean fry-up. I’ve got a bath, too. It’s better than being in the cold at four in the morning,” she pleads.
“You can’t help me, Miss.” Why can’t I just… walk off like I need to? Is it her voice or the fact that she appeared just at the right time, as if divine intervention stepped in?
“Sometimes a listening ear is what you need,” she pleads. “Please, just come away from the edge.”
I’ve never been a religious man, but I know some of my regiment are. They talk about signs of God, and I swear I now know what they must mean, because I turn around and, without thinking, open the door of her car and sit in the passenger side.
I didn’t want to kill myself, anyway; it was just the only way out. But maybe this angel might help? Who knows? She turned up at the right or wrong time, depending on your view. She might just have an answer.
“What’s your name?” she asks when she does her seatbelt up.
“Bryson,” I answer.
“I’m Angelica. I live back down that way. Thank you for coming with me.”
I don’t answer. Her black hair: the way it was framed with the yellow hue halo and the way she said she would listen… it seemed like a sign for me to turn around from what I needed to do. She’s a sign I couldn’t ignore.
