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She was sat with her friends, enjoying a remarkably uninspired conversation about the summers events and excursions. But something else had particularly grabbed her attention.

A lone boy, sat in the corner atop a curved, beige chair. As he read his book, his hands quivered. The scars along his wrists were fresh and deep, and they were what had originally caught her attention.

He vibrated like a phone. His shaking seemed never to cease, almost as if he were aware of some impending disaster; a tornado, an earthquake, a tsunami.

And know of one he certainly did.


It was months later; she was out on a date.

The man was an exceedingly original fellow. Rather unorthodox, but then again, she supposed she did so like them like that.

The bridge had been heaving that afternoon, but now, as the moon shone down on the gushing water below, she was the only one remaining, traipsing along in her dainty heels and pinstripe skirt.

But wait, no that was wrong. One other person remained.

She scarcely recognised him, but there he was, stood atop the bridge, quivering even more than before.

His weeping matched the roar of the water, as he quickly became one with the depths beneath.

She silently wished she wasn’t so observant.


Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt