I come here often. The rusted and decaying mass of metal that once was a bridge, connecting the two separated land, gives me a sense of comfort and serenity. The drowning sun was covered with a blanket of gray cloud. I stood on the edge with a cigarette in hand that once in a while touched my lips. The smoke traced its path in the rain that was reduced to a sprinkle, disappearing in the strong wind.
Acrid air crept into my lungs, turning my stomach, but somehow I managed to keep the food inside. I didn’t move. Soon, I was going to die, that was certain. He was young, almost my age, slightly taller. He looked at me, analyzing my every move. But in his movement he also expected something from me, and I didn’t understand what. He raised his knife and slowly put it to my chest. I didn’t retreat, speak, or show fear. It seemed to surprise him “You’re quiet.” – It wasn’t a question.
by Rév O’Conner and Karolina Škaljin