Birdsong | Kenneth Hickey

Before dawn when the silent whispers turned him to action. Slow he took his first steps soft on the bridge. At last his path clear, the future certain. He quickened his pace along the shallow curve of the pedestrian walkway until he stood silent at its peak, alone in the cold morning air. Surveying the scape that lay before, sun gentle rising above pale pollution, not yet high enough to light the dull day. Half finished bypass. Construction laid aside. Soulless streets where he had slow picked his battles. Red apartment block where he fought and lost.

     Morning commuters not yet emerged, leaving the motorway empty and aching. Solitary, undisturbed to complete his work. With sure movement lowered his head to tie the rope. Felt power in its threads, coil on coil, fixed to the top rail of the barrier designed to stop careless strollers from dropping sixty feet. He’d need six. Caressing the loose end he formed the heavy noose. A forgotten old day trick washed from memory. Slipped neat round his neck and crossed the rail.

     Always thought this would be the hardest part, staring down death with frightened eyes. But fear abandoned him to the course. Knew he could be free. Taking his last look at the fractured facade, sun’s bright purples through the smog, dawning on a day that would die without him. Thought of all that might have been, held a tear that itched at his eye and took the silent step.

     Silhouetted against a new sun, wind caught him, swing low in the morning chill, before the breeze retreated shameful. ‘Let him rest.’ Few first cars never saw. Others witnessed and winked on. Half hearted phone call made eventual.

     Alone in the bedroom she found the note. Knew through her cry he was gone.

     No birdsong.