He couldn’t have said if his mind was actually made up, but it no longer mattered. Since that morning he knew he was capable of it. In his minds eye he could see himself vividly – in the third person – going through with it. At the same time he could feel it in his body – he could feel his muscles tensing and going through the motions.

He had imagined it so many times before – since that day in November. But his visions no longer had the haze of a distant fantasy. Since the breakdown and subsequent numbness of the morning, the minuscule rays of hope he had carried were now washed out – diluted and distorted like an ugly, childishly wrought watercolor.

He stepped off the curb and crossed the adjoining street. As he moved he could not feel himself connecting with the pavement. His eyes fell upon a long, severe crack in the sidewalk. As he studied it his gaze slowly tilted upward to follow it’s path along the weed clogged gutter. Suddenly his destination came into view and and he froze.

There was the bridge.