Greyscale

     I pushed hard, breathing heavily. It was the last escape I would have before the cold took away my freedom. The air in the tires was low, and I held tightly against its threat of wobbling, my hands raw from gripping the handlebars. I didn't take my usual path into the woods, choosing instead the pavement, a promising shot to the next town over. Premature leaves lay dead on the ground, like teasers to the foliage soon to unfold in the green canopy overhead. A goal wedged it's way into my head. To the river, chanted my mind, I have to make it to the river. How beautiful it'll be. Just another mile or two. It'll be perfect.

     I saw the edges of the bridge before anything else, and let myself coast to it. My heart was pounding, and sweat dripped in streaks framing my face. I wanted to press myself against the edge and let a breeze brush against my skin. I stopped the bike, and slipped off, kicking out the kickstand in a single, well rehearsed movement, but it wasn't right.

     There was no breeze, and nobody else. Just an empty bridge of unforgiving concrete. I wrapped my hands around the bars of the side, the dark metal hauntingly cool to my fevered touch, and tried to lean out. The river had been battered and flooded by the rain days before, leaving the banks scarred and sick. It was suddenly cloudy greys and lifeless blacks, and I felt trapped and drained.

     I sat on the bench for a minute with a sip or two of water, before heading back without any real promise or direction.