I stand looking down at a sea of dark nothingness. Breathe in. Breathe out. Tears start to flow like a river down a mountain. The pure smell of wet soil fills the air, but it is masked by the stench of rotten trash left in the crevices of the bridge. The sky is a dark shade of blue that slowly turns to the gray of night. Clouds cover the sun's smile with spots of pain, creating a dark coat in the atmosphere that emanates sadness, and making me feel like less than I already am. The trees are specters with their limp branches and fallen leaves. A true funeral for Mother Nature.

A sudden shock of realization shakes its way through my body. For seventeen years my pathetic life has been bringing me nothing but death. I recall the sunny afternoons when I had a family. My little sister ran through the fields of Grandpa Gary's farm, carelessly swaying with the wind. My mother called us in through the front window announcing dinner was ready. My old man sat on the green chair that smelled like wet dog, reading an old newspaper. And I, I helped my grandpa fish in the lake by the house. Those days were a lifetime ago. Those memories were of a time when I was happy and proud to be alive; that has changed.
One year and two days have passed since that day. I still feel as guilty as I felt the moment I learned of my family's death. I had ended their lives, and now I am  left to suffer the consequences.
"Good-bye Mom! I'll see you tonight!" I told her as I opened the door to see the car of my friend Frankie.
"Have a good time! And remember, Pierre, be careful." Those were the last words I ever heard her say.
Later that night I learned that my house had burned down with all of my family inside. A gas burner was left on and in matter of seconds, my family was roasted alive. It had been my fault, it was my gas burner. My chemistry project required gas, and I had forgotten to turn it off when I left my basement laboratory. Since that day I only use the lab to create mixtures that may injure me or, at least, erase my memory. But nothing works, the memories remain.
I was sent to therapy for two months. The therapist kept trying to coax from me a smile, a wink, a mere gesture of happiness, life. But the only feeling that could make its way out of my broken soul was grief. Grief, guilt, and hate. How was I supposed to live without wanting to? My identity was stained with my family's cold blood. They were dead. All of them. My little sister's body was found next to the window. And I hated myself for what I did to them. Pierre Larson was a name I began to hate. I isolated myself from reality to go live in a world where I never had family. It was easier to block out the pain than to let it consume every ounce of life I had left. But now I am empty.
I take a step back from the metal rail. Something had driven me to this spot. The spot where my parents first met. Once, my mother told me that she met my dad on Malcolm Bridge the day of the annual Swan’s Parade, and as I stand here on this bridge, looking down at the street, I realize what that something was. I missed my family, my parents. And this is the only way to reunite with them. For months people tried to make me believe that I would live a happy life, but the only way to be happy is if I show my parents how much I love them by sacrificing myself to them. And in this moment, I know that I have to jump.
One. Two.Three. I look at my wrists and at the scars that have formed because of their constant encounter with the sharp blade of a knife. I touch my scars to find the ridges of damaged skin. Trying to cut myself had gotten me into a mental health ward when I first started.
"Pierre Larson. Stuck in here because I tried to express myself. Of course the maid found out and sent me here." I spoke to the official in a calm yet accusing voice.
"Son, we will teach you how to communicate without killing yourself. Now, you're in room 3B. Your roommate will help you out." Another person telling me how to live my cursed life.
I had been miserable. I felt like a pig being hunted constantly with no moment to be allowed to breathe. People pushed me into walls like dark paintings by a dead artist. I couldn't see the sun, and the moon only brought darkness upon my window. It was an invasion of privacy that was supposed to teach me to open myself up to strangers who wanted to pick out pieces that did not match. And with the days of meat stew and stale biscuits came the nights of crying myself to a trance of sadness, not quite sleep. I had given myself up to the people trying to fix something that was destroyed. I told a nurse once to take a paper and crumple it. Then make it flat again and talk to it. The problem is, the paper will never be the same again. The minute it ripped everything held it together died, and it can't be brought back to life. I died that night, and a miracle would not be able to make me live again.
Now I know. My journey is over and a new life awaits me on the other side. I can almost see my father's stern face. His lips finally forming a smile to show how proud he is of his son's sacrifice. My mother carries her proud smile, yet tears pool under her hazel eyes as she nods in agreement with my decision. And I proudly step forward as I imagine my little sister's giddy face as she realizes that her big brother will be back with her to tuck her into bed. One foot, then another on the rail. One last breath as I look around. I know I'm leaving a life behind, but I'm too relieved to grieve.