Tales from a Crisis Line


Part 1

She’s been walking for hours, hands pressed into fists that mirror her rage, then jammed into her pockets.  She can feel her nails digging into her palms, and she welcomes the pain.  It is the only thing she understands.  Pain is the one constant she’s had since she was five years old, an old friend, a soulmate.  

It’s late.  Or early, depending on your point of view.  The streets are deserted, the city quiet.  And yet she walks, careless and caring less.  Whatever happens, happens, and maybe, just maybe, someone or something will appear from the shadows, and put her out of her misery permanently.

Claire is no stranger to her darker thoughts.  They reside just below the surface of her skin, rearing their ugly heads in the middle of the night, or during moments of insecurity.  Sometimes she can fight them, emerging victorious.  Sometimes they defeat her.    

Just when she thinks she has no more tears to cry, they spring up again as if to remind her that sorrow is where she will stay, where her soul is meant to live.  

The lights of Tradeston Bridge beckon her.  She stops in the middle of the structure, leans over the railing, and stares down at the dark, swirling waters of the River Clyde. 

The black water promises peace.  

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