Lucky People

Other Books by Mitch Goth

  The Brigio Series

  Parabellum

  Parabellum: Part II

  Matanzas

  Sins of My Brother

  The Man from Montenegro

  The Protectorate Chronicles

  Unlikely Angels

  The Antioch Adventures

  Welcome to Antioch College

  Timid New World

  The Street Fair

  Powerless

  Stand-alone novels

  The Longest Night Ever Lived

  The Sinking of The Pattison Glory

  Delicate Rain

  Shattered Glass

  Collections

  The Brigio Three

  The Antioch Adventures Collection #1

  Lucky People

  An Original Short Story

  By:

  Mitch Goth

  Lucky People

  Copyright: 2014 Mitch Goth

  No portion of this book may be reproduced or reprinted in any medium, or by electronic, mechanical or any other means without the express written consent of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references or uses to real world events, people, products or places are used in a fictitious manner. Other characters, events, or places are products of imagination and any resemblance to actual people, places or happenings is purely coincidental.

  1

  The bridge was cool, damp, much like the air that encapsulated it. A thick fog had absorbed much of the city on this night, although not many were still astir to witness it. The white blanket of moisture stood as a stark contrast to the black, shadowy picture the night air painted.

  A car hadn't passed over the bridge in several hours. During the day, the concrete span was bustling with cars and people getting from one end of downtown to the other. But, when night fell and the shutters of downtown closed up, the bridge and all surrounding infrastructure fell dormant. This part of town normally only felt the footfalls of a few stragglers and vandals at this time of night, but now there seemed to be an exception. Three pairs of feet meandered across different points of the dark, foggy bridge. As the three figures closed in on the center, their strolls slowed down, as if each were suddenly weighed down by something substantial.

  -

  One figure was walking east. A man. Silently weeping. All around him there was nothing. Through the night he heard nothing, through the fog he saw nothing. Downtown was nothing more than a lonesome expanse, but this wasn't anything new to him. The man was never a sociable one, he never went out looking for friends, because he didn't need them. He had his family. His wife, his daughter, each showed great love and adoration for him. Through the monotony and loneliness of his daily routine, his home was his escape. Now it is his asylum.

  They were gone now, off so suddenly. This happy man had lost all the asterisks on his life of solitude. He had always known that if he were ever without his family, he would never cease to feel empty and apart from all others. But, now that the time had come, it was nothing but unfathomable depression, no amount of preparation could have ever saved him from it.

  So here this man stood, crying without a sound, slowing his walk over the bridge. He stopped after a moment and looked over the edge. He couldn't see the bottom, but he could hear it flowing, he could smell the pungent river water. But this did not deter him, he was ready now, too ready to be stopped.

  -

  One figure was walking west. A woman. She strolled through the cool night air, constantly looking around. No matter how many times she scanned the scenery, she always came across new things, or they were new to her at least. In her hands were a pen and pad. Even while she was looking around, the woman's pen kept seizing about, scrawling words across the page of the pad. Her stroke was so strong she could hear it clearly, almost understanding what was being written from sound alone. The pen's low racket was the only sound she could hear through the late night.

  Her pen kept moving, but she never looked down at it, honestly she didn't want to. She knew what she was here for, and now that she'd come this far, there wasn't any way that she was going to turn back and give up. Too much had happened already, so much hell. She knew that if she turned back, there would only be more of that pain awaiting her. The pen continued on. It was needed, whether she wanted it or not.

  Her memory had always been her strong point. Despite being an accountant, she hardly used a calculator. All the numbers and figures stayed quite safe in her brain. But now things had changed. Life was far different now, everything was different since the accident. She would wake up in the morning having forgotten much of what'd happened the day before, her mind would skip beats throughout the day and often she would find herself in the middle of doing something with no recollection of why. The pen and pad was there to keep her focused, so even if she forgot her goal, she had something to put her back on track.

  The writings helped her for life, but not much for her job. Work slowed down, and as her mind continued to dwindle, everyone around her could see just how useless she was becoming. She always saw their gazes that they sent her when she was looking flustered or frustrated. None of them helped because they knew that they couldn't. Eventually, she turned in all her necessary papers and departed. Although she showed up for work for a few days after that, still getting used to something new to remember.

  After the loss of her job, friends and family came to comfort her. But, as more time went on, she began to lose sight of them as well. Her parents, her lifelong friends, her ex-husband and her daughter all tried to help her through and get her rehabilitation. It did no good. In time, her parents became nothing more than people who happened to share her name, her friends melted away into strangers. Her ex-husband, whom she'd spent eight years of her life right beside, was completely faceless. But all of that was of no comparison to her daughter.

  Still in her teens, still young, the woman's daughter knew that her mother couldn't control her slow deterioration of memory. But that didn't make it easier for either of them. The woman could see the relentless pain in her child's eyes every time she forgot her name. She could tell they were related, and by her daughter's tears she knew that they were close. The age difference told her that this teen was her daughter, but the name never came to her. It brought both of them to tears every time they interacted. That wasn't how it was supposed to be. A child should be loved by their parents, but this girl was without that love. Truly faceless to the one who had raised her. Nameless to the one who had named her.

  To the woman, that was that, she no longer wanted to be any burden to her family. She penned something out in her notebook, looked at it again and again for weeks to ensure that her mind never wavered. It never did. Her decision was made. So much pain and hell around her, she needed to get out.

  So here this woman stood, on an empty bridge in foggy air. She peered over the edge of the bridge. She couldn't see the water, but could hear the rush and feel the misty moisture coming up from the currents. For the first time since walking onto the bridge, she looked down at the notebook. Jump. She nodded and felt no fear.

  -

  The third figure stood facing south, walking slowly across the street towards the far railing. This figure was a young man, athletic-looking, but with a large limp. It was something he never quite got over. The walk across the street was difficult, much like walking anywhere else for him. He knew he didn't belong in this state, he was made for something else, a form of physical greatness, greatness that would never come.

  Several months prior to this day, the young man was on top of his own world. The star running back at his college, he had a full ride through it, but he never cared much for the classes. In truth, he knew he only needed them so he could stay on the team and get the recognition
he knew someone as good as him deserved.

  To this young man, only one thing mattered, doing what he loved to do, professionally. And at that point in his life, it seemed certain, NFL teams were already whispering all around about the lighting running back in college, despite the fact that he was still two years away from graduation and draft. He knew he'd make it big, the young man was sure he was destined for great things. Then the accident happened.

  He didn't recall much from that day. He wasn't sure if it was due to some kind of head trauma or if he had simply blacked out the memory of his world falling to pieces. All the young man knew now was that no matter what had happened that day, it could never change, it could never become anything different. The consequences from that occurrence will be with him forever, and the only thing he can do about it is make his forever a bit shorter.

  As the young man reached the edge of the bridge and looked down into the darkness and fog beneath, there were no apprehensions left in him. This was what he wanted to do now, it was the only thing he could do. He figured with his injury getting over the railing might prove difficult, but he would get over it if it was the last thing he'd do, and he was going to make sure it would be.

  So here this young man stood, staring over this bridge and down into endlessness. Life was at his back, but he paid no mind,