Logan blazed right past the “Welcome to Hopptide” sign, pushing his twenty-year-old Toyota to go a little faster. What used to be a dirt road ten years ago had recently been redone. The smooth asphalt gave Logan a pleasant ride into town.

Crisp air breezed through his cracked window. Lush bushy green trees whipped by. A trickle of familiar houses flooded the scenery. His foot didn’t want to let off the gas. He had to force his foot to put on the break, ignoring his want to fly right through the town. 

The road lead to Mainstreet. There were a few other cars on the road with him. He lulled behind them, rolling past the old buildings that used to be the main shopping district maybe a hundred years. A few shops had popped up in Logan’s absence. Their signs were still there, hanging on as if they would make their comeback.

Some of the still there signs were some Logan had seen himself when he was younger. The abandoned shops were strange to see. For some reason, it was weird to think that this place still existed—like it wasn’t real and would disappear the second Logan left.

At a stoplight, he kept looking around, taking it in. His hands gripped the wheel too tightly.

Nothing was going to happen. He wasn’t in danger so why did he feel so anxious?

He spotted a broken window. A memory came back to him. He and his friends had gotten drunk and thought it was a good idea to see if they could do bike flips. In front of a fucking window.

Exactly as expected, Logan had lost his balance and he’d crashed into the window. His dumb motorcycle boots had shattered the fragile old glass the second they touched it. Though, it was those same boots that had saved his feet.

He looked down at the scars on his arms. 

Wow. What nice memories.

The car idled on the road outlooking the tiny cemetery. He didn’t know if anyone below could see him, but he didn’t really care. The group, a cluster of black moving pins, watched as a silver casket was lowered into the ground. 

Logan turned off his car. He took his time getting out. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on them. Summer heat was coming in strong. He wasn’t sweating, but it felt like he stood in front of an oven.

Still, he leaned against the car and lit a cigarette. He faced away from the funeral. He was high up enough on the hillside that he could see farm land stretching out. Next to the empty land was windmills. They were massive things that reached upward into the sky. 

The sheer size of them always amazed him. One time after his dad beat him so hard he could barely remember his name, he came out to this same field. The windmills had called to him like a siren. All through that night, he laid under one of them and watched as its arms turned and turned. 

He felt so small. More small than he had before. 

The next day, he left Hopptide.

Logan turned back around. The casket was covered. People headed back to their cars. 

He watched them, trying to put names to faces, but he was too far away to make out features that would help joggle his memory. 

Dakota.

Why did he do it?

Logan crushed the finished cigarette. He dropped it and then smashed it with the heel of his boot. 

If there was anyone in this town that could have made something of himself, it was Dakota Locken. He was a coddled only child born to well-off parents. He’d been a loner, but that wasn’t a make or break situation. He’d been…talented.

Logan’s brows furrowed. A harsh frown pulled at his mouth. 

He wiped his hand roughly over his face. “Ah, shit.”

He remembered now. Not that he hadn’t entirely forgotten that he’d ripped up almost all of Dakota’s paintings. That part he remembered pretty well. 

His hands even recalled how it felt to tear the canvases from their frames and how it felt to cut through them with a knife.

What hadn’t been all that important then was how those had been part of Dakota’s college admission. But he could have made more. He could have still gone to college. Logan didn’t know anything.

He crouched, covering his head with his hands. 

“I’m a fucking scumbag.”

Logan started walking. 

The blazing heat mellowed some when he crossed the fields and made it to the dense line of trees that lined the town’s limits. The sun seared his back and neck. Sweat covered his forehead and trickled down his temple. He licked his lips to taste the saltiness of it. The flavor was the same. Today didn’t feel any different than a day at work.

The heat didn’t get to him. He welcomed it, trying to find normalcy. A strong breeze subsided the heat then the shade of the trees alleviated it. His mouth had gone dry, but he ignored it. He clenched and unclenched his fists, concentrating on the sensation to distract him.

Jones Creek Bridge wasn’t what he’d call a landmark or even a significant spot. It was, as the name suggested, a bridge built over a creek. The creek, however, had turned into a large rushing river about twenty years after it was built after a dam collapsed. The bridge had been reconstructed to fit the wideness of the river, but it was still a rickety mess that some said was haunted.

It had, in fact, turned into a high school hangout spot for some time. There were few places anyone in Hopptide could gather at. There was the park that had one swing-set, a merry-go-round rusted to hell, and a bench. Some gathered around the decommissioned railroad tracks, but it was all open field.

Jones Creek Bridge was the best out of three, if you didn’t count someone’s house. It was secluded enough that you could drink and smoke without being caught, and it wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. 

That didn’t mean Logan hung out there much. Matthew, the other idiot in his friend group, lived with his grandma and the old lady was none-the-wiser to the kind of shit they were doing in her nice trailer.

Logan wasn’t even sure he’d be able to find it. He didn’t even know if the river was still here or if it’d dried up. 

But he was almost too positive as to where it was. He didn’t need to think too much about it. His feet were carrying him and before he knew it, he heard the sound of rushing water.

A week ago was about the time the county had seen a record breaking amount of rain. That rain flooded the area and it was evident now as Logan stood on the bank. The water roared over rocks and through toppled branches. The current was scarily fast. If he fell in now, he’d be pulled under and he wouldn’t be able to swim back up.

The rain had turned the surrounding ground too soft. He had trouble walking alongside the river so he backtracked to the field. It didn’t take him much longer to make it to the street that lead to the bridge. Time didn’t feel like it passed much at all. And it wasn’t because he was thinking.

His head was empty. He wished he could say he was numb, but that wasn’t quite it. Emotions were hard to explain or rationalize when he didn’t feel like he was connected to his body at all. 

So he didn’t try. 

The moment his feet hit the road, he felt a sense of urgency. Or was it anxiety? A knot formed in his stomach. It pushed upward, prying his ribcage open and stretched his spine as it settled in his throat. 

Before, the memory of the bridge had been hazy, but now it was crystal clear. Nothing had changed. The overhanging structure of steel beams, weatherworn and discolored from years of service, loomed intimidatingly. 

Logan stared in awe. The feeling he had when he first saw the windmills came back. 

This feeling…had Dakota felt it too?

That feeling carried him to the bridge. Each step the knot in his throat got bigger. His breaths became difficult, yet, he wasn’t scared. He didn’t feel a need to turn back. Instead, he felt like there was no point in doing anything else.

His apartment still needed to be packed up. He needed to find a new job. All of that fell to the wayside. 

The sound of rushing water drowned out everything else. As he stood at the edge and peered down into the water, he felt more cleansed. 

Everything else…did it matter? He didn’t have to do anything. Just like Dakota, he could…

Logan gripped the bar keeping him from falling over. The metal was cold to the touch, but he was burning up on the inside. 

Memories started flooding in. Paintings, pain, windmills, bruises, and—Dakota’s defeated face as he kneeled over the destruction Logan had caused. 

The image of young Logan sneering down at Dakota was the worst. This is the image that haunted him now.

So, Logan made up his mind. He pulled himself up to stand on top of the metal bar. He held onto the other metal pole above his head and teetered precariously.

Like he’d done ten years ago, he kept running. But this time, it would finally end.

He closed his eyes. Then forced them open. Not for any reason other than he wanted to see it through.

Then, he jumped.