9 Feb


BLACK RIVER AT MIDNIGHT photo: Troll Bridge IMG_1804.jpg Jennifer Rolouge stood on the bridge at midnight and stared down into the inky black of the river running below her. Somewhere a distant train hooted at the night, and a lazy-sounding dog replied with a bored bark.

Jennifer wanted to die. She had decided over the past few hours that there was nothing left under the sun for her to live for. Timmy had left her, taken his toned body with its bronzed skin, those rippling muscles he had tempted her with and told her that there was someone else. And not just any someone: a princess, a jewel encrusted member of the royal family and one well known for her depravity.

Jennifer knew just how much Timmy loved depravity. He lived on it: it was food and drink to him. No evening under a taunting moon, awash as all evenings were with the best of wines, was worth living if he didn’t end up in bed with somebody beautiful. And for the past few weeks that somebody beautiful had been Jennifer.

Sometimes it had bordered on being too much for her, but never quite. She had told herself more than once that had he been less small in the genital region he would surely have expected too much of her average body, but he was small, so she was safe enough from his demands and excesses.

It wasn’t him she had learned to love, though, but the aura he took with him everywhere he went. He had confidence, enough for twelve good men with loads to spare, an easy way that oiled its way through life. He didn’t work, but then he didn’t have to. Things came to him – wealth, people, this bloody princess, and he expected them to. And all the plenty needed somewhere to flow, and some of it flowed to her.

And then he had ruined Jennifer’s life.

She only knew how much she wanted him when he’d told her to leave him and never darken his doorway again – and that was minutes after he’d ravished her and used that inadequate penis on her for one last time. It was as if his dismissal of her was all part of a game plan she really ought to have known about, but hadn’t because nobody had explained life to her.

She stared into the turgid depths oozing like midnight oil below her.

Soon she would jump. Soon she would end the misery of life without Timmy. Soon her lungs would be filled with the black water and her life would be snuffed out. Soon her misery would be ended because that’s what death does to misery.

She pulled herself onto the nearby parapet and prepared to leap, but something pulled her back. It was a sound a definite sound. She heard, like a pre-echo of her plans, the whisper of a splash. Not her splash, not her search for eternity, but someone else’s.
She jumped back down onto the safety of the bridge and her eyes opened wide with horror as the writhing figure of the cause of her grief drifted into view, moving with the turgid speed of the river from beneath its arches.

It was Timmy, whitely reflecting the moonlight, and someone had placed a glittering gemstone ring on his tiny flaccid penis.

And he was dead.

Jennifer thought for one brilliant moment that she might jump in and join him. But then she thought, no, that would be silly, let the silly sod die, there’s more than one fish in the sea.

Or the river.

© Peter Rogerson 09.02.15


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