Underneath the bridge

No man can say with any real confidence what his future will be. Not in a year. Not tomorrow. Not even an hour from now.

Hell, you could be alive one second and a pile of meat beneath a collapsing bridge the next.

That's the funny thing about life. We like to pretend we're steering the boat, but most of us are just sitting in it while the current drags us wherever it pleases. Fate, chance, miracles—call it whatever helps you sleep at night.

Personally, I stopped naming it.

“WAAHH!!”

I woke up to another man's scream.

For a moment, I thought someone was killing him.

Then I remembered.

It was just the new guy.

First night under the bridge.

Apparently, he used to be a guard until someone caught him sneaking tomatoes out of the kitchen. Tomatoes. That's what got him thrown out.

A lifetime of service, reduced to a handful of stolen vegetables.

I suppose that's one way for the world to tell you what it thinks you're worth.

He wasn't particularly tall, maybe six feet at most, and thin enough that I could count the bones along his ribs without trying. His clothes hung off him like they belonged to someone twice his size.

He hadn't gotten used to the place yet.

Most people don't.

He screamed every time the train passed overhead. The poor bastard seemed convinced the bridge was going to collapse and bury us alive.

I never bothered correcting him.

Not because he was right.

Because he wasn't wrong enough to be worth arguing with.

I climbed out of my bed—or bunker, if you want to give it a more respectable name.

It was an old water pipe running beneath the bridge. No water had passed through it in years, which made it perfect for sleeping in. It kept the rain off, kept most of the wind out, and, most importantly, kept the other bastards from taking my spot.

There were mice, of course.

There are always mice.

Every few nights they'd crawl out from the darkness at the back of the pipe and chew through whatever cardboard or scraps of clothing I had managed to collect.

I hated them.

They were probably the only things in this place doing better than I was.

I stepped into the alleyway.

It was pitch black, but I didn't need a lamp. I'd lived beneath this bridge long enough to know every turn, every broken pipe, every loose stone waiting to send someone face-first into the dirt.

You learn the layout when getting lost means dying.

I reached the ladder and climbed.

At the top was the only manhole cover that hadn't been properly sealed. It sat crooked in its frame, just enough for someone like me to pry it open.

I pushed against it.

Cold night air slipped through the gap.

I pushed harder.

The cover groaned, and a thin slice of the outside world appeared above me.

For a moment, I just stood there beneath it.

Then I climbed out.

I work as a porter in the market.

Boxes, bags, sacks, crates—if it can be carried, someone will pay me to carry it. Usually not much, but money is money. On a lucky day, I earn enough to keep myself from starving for three days.

Three days.

That's what a good day looks like for me.

On a bad day, I go home holding a piece of moldy bread and pretend I'm not disappointed. Hunger gets easier when you stop expecting dinner.

“Why, hello there, Peter the Porter.”

I heard the voice behind me.

I turned around and saw Anatoly Merc, the butcher's helper from the shop on the corner. Anatoly was a good man, as far as men who work around dead animals go. He usually had a smile on his face, and sometimes he even remembered my name.

“I've got some work for you. Come here.”

Work.

My favorite word.

I followed him around to the back of the shop.

The smell hit me before I even got inside.

It was awful.

Not just the usual smell of meat, either. This was something thicker. Dried blood, old fat, rotten things, and something else I couldn't name. I tried breathing through my mouth, but that only made the taste worse.

There were buckets and coolers everywhere, filled with meat and intestines.

Anatoly pointed at two of the buckets.

“Help me bring these to the front.”

I looked at them.

Then I looked at Anatoly.

Then back at the buckets.

“Of course,” I said.

I grabbed one in each hand.

Bad idea.

The weight nearly pulled my arms out of their sockets. My knees buckled, and for a second I thought I'd be eating butcher-shop floor for lunch.

I tightened my grip.

“Come on, Peter,” I muttered to myself. “You've carried heavier things.”

I hadn't.

But the buckets didn't know that.

So I started walking.

One step.

Then another.

My arms shook the whole way. The handles dug into my fingers, and by the time I reached the front, I could barely feel my hands.

I put the buckets down.

Anatoly nodded.

“Good work.”

Good work.

Two words worth more than they sounded.

I wiped my hands on my trousers and walked toward the counter to collect my pay.

Anna was there.

Anatoly's daughter.

She looked at me.

Then she looked at my clothes.

Then at my hands.

Her face twisted a little.

Disgust.

I knew that look.

I'd seen it before.

People looked at me like that when I smelled bad. Usually after I'd been working all day. Sometimes before I'd even started.

Anna held out my pay.

I took it.

I counted the coins in my palm.

Not much.

Enough for bread, maybe.

I closed my hand around them.

“Thank you,” I said.

Anna didn't answer.

I walked out of the shop.

The smell of the butcher's shop followed me for half a street.

I suppose that's what happens when you're poor.

ven when you leave the dirty place, some of it comes with you.

I went looking for more work after leaving the butcher shop.

There was always work somewhere in the city. There was also always someone willing to pay less than they should.

I headed toward the busy streets and saw Ruben.

He was about my age, carrying boxes just like I did.

The difference was that I worked because I had to.

Ruben worked because he thought it was fun.

I hated people like him.

Not Ruben specifically.

Well... maybe Ruben a little.

It was easy to find something interesting when you didn't have to worry about whether you'd eat tomorrow. To people like him, carrying boxes was an adventure.

To me, it was Tuesday.

“Hi, Parker!” he shouted, running toward me.

“Peter.”

“Oh. Sorry. I'm not good at remembering names,” he said, looking embarrassed.

I stared at him.

“Apparently.”

He laughed.

I didn't.

We spent the rest of the day waiting for someone to hire us. The sun crawled across the sky while we stood around pretending our legs weren't tired.

Eventually, the sun disappeared.

Then I heard someone shouting from far away.

“RUBEN!”

Ruben's face changed immediately.

“Oh, no.”

I looked toward the voice.

A woman was storming through the crowd.

Misha.

His aunt.

Ruben looked at me and smiled.

Then he ran.

“RUBEN!”

Misha chased after him.

“How many times have I told you not to do this kind of work?! You're making us look like we're in need of money!”

I watched them disappear into the crowd.

I couldn't help but think about that.

Imagine being ashamed of looking poor.

Some of us would be grateful just to look fed.

I decided to go home.

Before climbing down into the tunnels, I stopped at a bakery and bought some old bread.

Old bread was cheaper.

Fresh bread was for people with better problems.

My stomach had been complaining since morning, but I had ignored it. You get used to hunger eventually.

Not completely.

You just get tired of listening to it.

I shoved the bread into my pocket and climbed down into the underground tunnels.

Our settlement was hidden beneath the city, somewhere between old railway tracks, pipes, and places the city had forgotten about.

When I reached my resting place, I noticed moonlight slipping through the gaps between the railroad tracks above us.

It was strangely beautiful.

I hated that.

Things shouldn't be beautiful when you're hungry.

I climbed into my little corner and took out my bread.

I ate half of it and saved the rest for breakfast.

Then I drank water from the leaking pipe above me.

It tasted like metal.

Everything down here tasted like metal.

I lay down.

My shoulder was still aching from carrying those damn buckets earlier.

I closed my eyes.

Sleep came quickly.

For once, I thought I might get some peace.

Then something stabbed me in the chest.

I shot awake.

Something was moving inside my clothes.

I grabbed it.

A rat.

The bastard had somehow crawled into my shirt and was chewing on my bread.

My bread.

My breakfast.

The only reason I had saved it was so I wouldn't wake up hungry.

The rat looked at me.

I looked at the rat.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then it ran.

“Oh, no you don't!”

I chased it into the tunnel.

I crawled after it through the darkness, scraping my knees against the ground.

“Get back here!”

The rat disappeared into a narrow passage.

I followed.

Then—

Clang!

I slammed into a metal screen.

“Shit!”

I grabbed the screen and shook it.

Nothing.

The rat was gone.

I could hear its little feet scratching against the ground as it escaped.

Then I heard something else.

A laugh.

A quiet one.

Coming from the other side of the screen.

I froze.

Someone was there.

“WHO ARE YOU?!” I shouted.

The laughter stopped.

For a few seconds, there was nothing.

Then a voice answered.

“No one.”

I stared at the darkness beyond the metal screen.

“No one?”

No answer.

I tightened my grip.

“Well, give me my bread back, at least!”

Silence.

I knew it was ridiculous.

The person on the other side hadn't stolen my bread.

The rat had.

But the rat wasn't going to listen to me.

And I needed someone to blame.

So, naturally, I blamed the stranger.

It seemed fair enough.

The man laughed.

“You do realize how ridiculous you sound, right?”

He got me there.

I shut my mouth, suddenly aware of how stupid I must have sounded. I hated that. I hated being made to feel like an idiot even more than I hated losing my food.

Still, there was something that bothered me more.

I couldn't see his face.

Not clearly, anyway. It was just there—some shape sitting across from me, hidden in the darkness. I couldn't recognize him, couldn't even tell if I had seen him before.

So I asked the obvious.

“Who the fuck are you? And how the hell did you even get there?”

“I already told you. I'm no one.”

His voice was flat. No irritation. No amusement. Nothing.

That somehow pissed me off even more.

“Well, you gotta be somebody! Nobody just fucking appears out of nowhere. Tell me!”

He didn't answer immediately.

“It's complicated.”

“Oh, great. Of course it is.”

“Let's just say I'm you.”

I stared at him.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

I scoffed. “Quit playing around.”

“I'm not.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“No.”

That answer caught me off guard.

“What?”

“I don't expect you to believe me.”

There was something about the way he said it. Like my disbelief didn't matter to him. Like he had all the time in the world and I was the only one in a hurry.

He continued.

“I'm you. Just not in the way you're thinking. We're the same.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“I know you as much as I know myself.”

He paused.

“So tell me, Peter. What do you think about life?”

I let out a bitter laugh.

“Life?”

“Life.”

“What do I think about it?”

I leaned back.

“I think it's full of shit.”

The words came easily.

“People kill each other for money, power, food—hell, sometimes they don't even need a reason. Everyone's just looking out for themselves. We're supposed to help each other, but apparently that's too much to ask.”

I shook my head.

“Everybody talks about kindness and humanity until there's something they want. Then suddenly, it's every man for himself.”

The man listened without interrupting.

For once, I appreciated the silence.

Then he spoke.

“Yes.”

Just that.

“Yes?”

“Yes. You're right.”

I frowned.

“Then what's the point?”

“The point is that you're missing something.”