Survival – W. Sizemore

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Steven stands on the edge of Harrow’s Peak Bridge, admiring what he declares will be his last sunrise. While there wasn’t anything on earth that could’ve made him reconsider his decision, the scenery did its best to compel him otherwise.

Much to his annoyance, the sight that met him upon his arrival was the very portrait of a perfect Sunday morning. Why oh why, he thought, couldn’t it have been overcast. Despite this, his resolve remained unwavering as the sleepy highway was to remain free of any would-be do-gooders for a few more minutes. He needed to act swiftly. Not a thought in his head, he hoists himself up on the railing and steps towards the edge. Right before signing on the dotted line, a clearing of the throat interrupted him.

“Son of a BITCH,” he thought. Why on earth was a moment’s peace so hard to come by in this life? Even now in the dead of dawn his solemn mission was to be detracted by the intrusion of yet another human being. Any argument the sunrise made was quickly dismissed.

Turning to face his tormentor, his eyes landed on a pudgy, humble frame. The man’s features were obfuscated by unkempt facial hair and greasy locks that cascaded over a worn yellow slicker. He stood eerily still and wheezed in his direction.

“What?” barked Steven after a couple seconds of silence too many.

The man remained steadfast in his quiet, his eyes not breaking Steven’s gaze. Without warning he lunges at Steven, who recoils and in turn loses his footing on the railing. A desperate cry exercises itself from his gut as he just barely manages to cling to the structure.

The man stays put and shouts: “It’s a hard instinct to fight!”

“What is?” replies Steven still gripping the rail.

“Survival.”

The man makes an about face and goes off. Steven drops onto the road and weeps.

 

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