Dark Waters By Christopher Mahon

Dark Waters By Christopher Mahon

i.

Above the river a high cantilevered bridge crossed to connect the two parts of the mid-sized city and if you stood on the middle of the bridge you could see not only the river below but also the city spreading out to the left and the right, the hills that began to rise around the city, and you could also glimpse the ocean beyond. Even during the nighttime you could sense it all: the feel of the bridge below your feet, the life and lights of the city floating up to you through the air, and the land and water that made the city possible to begin with, not to mention the cars that raced unimpeded behind you on the pavement that floated high in the air above the river.   

It was what the forlorn man sensed as he stood in the middle of the bridge at midnight: the lights of the city, the river below, the cold air around him, not to mention the breeze of the sparse traffic behind him and the invisible hum of the sleepless city. It was all undeniably sensual: he felt the air through the fabric of his black trench coat, he smelled the city and the river itself, and, of course, he could see lights shining as he gripped the cold steel of the bridge railing with the flesh of his bare hands.

He had come to the bridge this evening to destroy himself although there was no guarantee of success. The drop wasn’t so far, after all. The crash could often not be fatal; even a drowning was not guaranteed. For this reason, he had loaded down his coats with weights to make the fall faster and to make the sinking of his body more certain.

It was a crime that had brought him here, but that was all behind him now.

His future lay below him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” a woman said.

He turned his head and saw the owner of the voice walking toward him.

He heard her too because strangely even here in the middle of a bridge in the middle of the night, she wore heels and he heard them click toward him as she walked. She was dressed like he was in her black trench coat although she was not wearing a dark brimmed hat like he was. She was hatless in the open air and beneath the orange lights he could catch the sheen of her dark brown hair, the whiteness of her face, the red lipstick on her lips.

Why would anyone walking on this bridge be so dressed up? he wondered.

It was a question he could have asked himself.

“I know,” she repeated.

She stopped right before him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m the one you’ve been looking for.”

“But I’m not looking for anyone,” he said.

“Yes you are,” she said. “And you don’t want to do it.”

She had a quiet windy voice that blended with the air that floated through the bridge on which they stood. He was surprised to see her. As far as he could see, she had walked out of nowhere.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

“I’m your savior,” she told him.

But she laughed as she said it.  

“What if I don’t want to be saved?”

She moved closer to him and looked into his dark sad eyes.

“People only feel like dying when they are alone,” she said. “You’re not alone now.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then go ahead and jump. Nobody’s stopping you.”

But everything for him had changed, and she knew it since she was the one who had changed everything. She was more of a sorceress than a woman. He turned away from her and leaned over the railing watching the river below him trail away into darkness. Slowly out of another dark impulse he reached for the brim of his hat and took the hat off his head. He stepped back slightly to get better balance and then he flung his hat far out into space, releasing it from the bridge and to the water below. They both watched it disappear into the darkness. Both might have admitted they saw the tiniest white splash on the surface below when the fine wool of his fedora met the wet water and then floated away.

“That could have been you,” she said.

“I wouldn’t have fallen so gracefully, and I wouldn’t have floated away.”

“How do you know it floated away?”

He turned to look at her and noticed her uncanny white skin, white as a rabbit, white as a pearl, white as a marble statue, together with her crimson lips and dark eyes that now shined like her hair shined, and he noticed her finely groomed arched eyebrows all the darker for her uncanny white face.

“It’s just a feeling I have,” he said.

“You’re in a sorry state.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“Maybe you do. Maybe you need someone to tell you that so you can see yourself in the mirror of another person’s words.”

“And you think you’re the one?”

“I know I’m the one,” she said.

ii.

Less than one hour later they were sitting in the well-furnished ornate bar of an exclusive downtown hotel. The hotel was set on the banks of the river. The barroom was that kind of blue-blooded room you’d see in movies with the oak paneling and leather booths and a long gleaming oak wood bar with the opulent mirror running behind it and the hundred glass bottles of expensive booze on display and all of it minded by the dark-haired, thick-haired, handsome-faced bartender in his crisp white long-sleeved shirt, satiny black tie, and fitted black vest. They sat opposite the bartender in a corner booth drinking light-filled bourbon out of cut glass tumblers.

She still looked like a sorceress even though she was dressed in her high-fashion clothes with her high-fashion hair style and her high-fashion make-up over her uncanny white skin. She was something more than human or perhaps less than human; he couldn’t decide but there was a beauty to her absolutely complemented by the dark flame of her brown hair and arched eyebrows and dark eyes and accented by the perfect symmetry of her face.

Those eyes could be overpowering. Or not. She could turn the energy of her eyes on and off and up and down and as he looked into her eyes now he swore he saw a hint of red in their darkness. A red flame, something of fire burning in her eyes.

Yes, definitely, a red tint.

It was unreal and it came and went.

“So you took a bribe,” she told him.  “And now you can’t live with yourself.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said even though he knew what she was talking about.

“Don’t be disingenuous. I just plucked you off a bridge.”

He wondered how she knew what she did and he still wondered who she was.

“And your paltry crime ate away at your fragile soul so much that it destroyed that hopeful relationship you had with that pious woman you no longer believe you are fit to be with.”

“She wasn’t pious,” he said.

 “She wanted to know why you were upset but you wouldn’t tell her. And now that woman is gone forever. And that broke your heart, and that’s why you wanted to throw yourself off the bridge. The sad thing about it is that you’re a much better man than you give yourself credit for and you’re worth far more than you think you are.”

“Even if all of that is true, what does any of that have to do with you?”

“I can give you whatever you want.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“You’re lying.” 

“I want a lot of things.” 

“What do you want most?”

He folded his hands, rested his elbows on the table, and rested his lips upon his hands.

“I simply want to be a good man,” he said.

“I can give you that.” 

“How?”

“That’s my business. You just have do your part.”

“My part? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean there’s a price for everything. Even goodness.”

“What kind of price?”

“You have to belong to me,” she said. “Me only. You can’t give your heart and soul to anyone else.”

“Do you mean romantically?”

“I mean in all ways.”

Unfortunately, she seemed to be deadly serious.

“Do you want to be a good man or not?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, then.”

“I’m still a bit confused.”

“I can explain more if you insist,” she said.

And she took out a cigarette and lit it with a dark flame.

She signaled to the barman, and he walked over with two more drinks.

As they drank, she explained.

“Do you agree?” she finally asked.

“I think so.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“OK. Yes. I agree”

“Fine. But after tonight,” she added, taking one more sip of her bourbon, “you’ll have to give up the booze. You have to be clear-headed if you want to be good.”

iii.

And so he became a good man. Or a better man, perhaps, because he had always been a good man. He had just slipped that one time, or maybe two times, and fell, so hard that he needed to be restored, to be given a second chance, by a higher power, perhaps, and she gave him that chance. She gave him a new power of his own which he leaned into and learned to use at will. He could flex the muscle of his goodness and his muscle grew stronger.

At night, at the end of the day, he’d look in the mirror and see a changed man.

He also saw a tiny red flicker in his eyes that sometimes grew in brightness and at other times diminished. His own personal flame, the sign of his transformation.

At work he excelled.

People offered hm new respect, listened to him more closely, asked him for advice.

Outside of work, on Sundays, he began to go to church again.

At church, people flocked to him, wanted to be near his presence in those minutes after church when people congregated in the courtyard outside and talked.

He attracted people.

And at church he met a young woman dressed in white. He was attracted to her. It was  the first time he felt such a feeling in a long time, and, remembering his promise, he kept his distance. But they kept meeting each Sunday after church in the courtyard with all the other people; somehow they always found themselves talking together. Once she told him about a place where she volunteered on weekends, a center for kids in the neighborhood, and another time she suggested he should visit the place as he would be an excellent volunteer there because kids these days, especially boys, needed role models like himself.

He saw no harm in it and so he visited the center on the next Saturday. In time, he began to volunteer there, too, and found that he loved the kids for their innocence and for the inviolate potential he could see in their eyes. .

He started a chess club for the kids, for both the boys and the girls, and they flocked to it, interested in developing their minds, interested in the strategy of the game, the infinite possibilities, the competitive aspect of playing, and interested, too, in spending time in his company.

The woman in white was often there, too.

She was slim and short and athletic with blonde hair usually in a pony tail. She coached the girls in all kinds of sports – tennis, softball, ping pong, basketball, soccer, depending on the time of year. She had played soccer in college, he’d learned, and was expert at moving the ball about the field.

Once, over a holiday, she invited him to her apartment for a party.

There would be church people there. There would be youth center people there.

He saw no harm in it. He went.

And at the end of the party, after everyone had eaten food and talked, and later, one by one departed, he found that he and she were the only two left standing in the room.

“Thanks for coming,” she told him.

Strangely, she walked across the living room and turned off a lamp in the corner, the one next to the green velvet couch against the white wall.

The atmosphere changed.

“What was that about?” he asked cheerfully.

“It just seemed so bright in here,” she said.

“Right. With so many people gone, there was much more light.”

She laughed.

“I should be going,” he said.

“Must you leave so early?” she asked.

“Idle hands are the work of the devil. Early to bed, early to rise.”

“There’s no work, tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must go.”

“At least let me get the door for you.”

It was while they stood together at the door that he could no longer ignore the surprising feelings he had felt for her since the moment he met her.

“Maybe I could stay later next time,” he said.

“I hope so.”

“I like you very much, but I must tell you: I really can’t get involved.”

“You can’t?” she was disappointed.

“No.”

“Why not? Are you married?”

“No.”

“Are you involved with someone else?”

He was mute.

“Is a kiss goodnight too much to ask?”

He couldn’t resist.

“See you next time,” she said as she closed the door behind him.

“Next time,” he echoed.

But even as he walked down the hallway, he felt his power diminishing. Outside, in the darkness, walking the sidewalk to his car, his breath weakened. Back at home he placed both hands on the sink to hold himself steady while he looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked like a changed man.

Older, somehow.

But in the darkness of his eyes he still saw the small flicker of a red flame.

And suddenly he was very tired.

He went to bed and slept for hours and hours.

Two days later he called in sick at work, and the next day after that he found himself sitting alone in a bar for the first time in months. It was a respectable bar, but it was a bar nevertheless. He was drinking bourbon and water and felt a tap on his shoulder.

“You defied me,” she said.

He turned around to look at her.

“You gave away your heart and soul to someone else,” she continued.

“It was just a kiss,” he said.

“But you kissed her with your whole heart and soul. You defied me.”

He was too tired to argue.

“Meet me tomorrow night at midnight,” she said.

“Where?”

“You know where,” she answered.

iv.

Courteous and punctual as always, he arrived a few minutes early, leaning over the bridge railing, staring down to the dark waters below, his ears filled with the wind and sound of the night and with the sound of rubber wheels racing on the pavement behind him, and his eyes filled with a darkness that was punctuated by the city lights floating like flowers around him. In moments, his ears were also filled by the click of high heels and soon she was standing right next to him.

“It’s another beautiful night,” she told him.

He only nodded.

“Any last words?” she asked him.

“Has it come to that?”

“You betrayed me.”

“It wasn’t fair to begin with.”

She only laughed at that.

She put her cold her hand on the back of his neck and he felt a sharp, painful prick there, which made him gasp and with his last breaths he offered his final words, which were only, “You’re not much for mercy, are you?”

She responded by putting her hand on his upper back and through his trench coat he felt the same terrible piercing through the cloth and then his skin, and with a supernatural push, she pushed his upper back over the rail, and the rest of him followed as he was flung into the empty air, somersaulting down to the dark waters below.

She herself merely walked away in her heels and her own dark trench coat and disappeared into the night at the end of the bridge.

They found his body washed up on a bank just before it was swept out completely into the ocean, all of his beautiful dark clothes drenched in the black water, a heavy man to pull out of the swift currents. A strange, mysterious death, which after investigation, seemed to admit of some strange, mysterious foul play, given the small wound in his neck and the small wound in the back. Which is to say, it was not ruled as a suicide, which is also to say: he was allowed a Christian funeral at the church he had begun to attend.

It was well attended.

The congregants felt a kind of sadness but not all-out grief, as the man they liked so well had always maintained a rather mysterious distance so they never were able to welcome him wholly into their hearts, just as he never welcomed them wholly into his.  Except for one, perhaps, the woman in white who was also there, although in this instance she wore dark clothes and felt a sadness, a lost opportunity, deeper than the others. A few may have noticed another woman standing in the back, the more-than-equally mysterious woman with the dark flame of brown hair and the uncanny white skin and the bright red lipstick.

She had come to pay her respects, too, and then, afterwards, quickly disappeared.

Unlike the others, she did not stay to talk quietly in the courtyard.

Later that evening, however, she appeared at a well-appointed downtown bar, a place of high back chairs and secluded booths, a place with a chandelier and a long mirror, crystal glasses, and expensive booze.

She sat quietly at a booth in the corner, eyeing an unfortunate man sitting alone at the bar. He was dressed in an expensive suit, an expensive white shirt, and expensive shoes. But the hunched aspect of his shoulders and his bowed silent head consigned to him an exceedingly mournful look, as if he mourned something tragic, perhaps his own life, or one of his own mistakes, or something else tragic that had recently befallen him.

The white-skinned woman waited until the moment she felt was right, and then she rose from the table and walked in her high heels over to the mournful man sitting at the bar.

She tapped him on his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she said, as he turned to look into her dark eyes, which carried in their centers a tiny small red flame.

“Yes?” he queried.

“Would you be so kind as to buy a girl a drink?” she asked.

The man did not feel like talking to anyone, but there was something in the woman’s voice that he could not resist, a softness, an airiness like the wind, and that, combined with her face, prompted the man to reach for his wallet with one hand and gesture with the other for the woman to please sit down.

And so she did, on the beautiful seat beside him, where she waited to hear the man’s story, the one she already knew.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Christopher Mahon 2025

Image Source: StockSnap from Pixabay