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FEATURING ADVANCED SOUP TECHNOLOGY
Because I had to get something out.
Not really, this was a work of passion. But I do really need to get my other projects out the door…
From your local scutoid studios which is such a dumb username.
I pack my things early, as agreed. It's not just another day at the office for me — it's September 21st. It's her day. It's all I've been able to think about, which hasn't been so great for my number-crunching performance. It's okay; my boss understands, or pretends to. Cuts me some slack around this time every year, even though she can never quite remember the date. She simply waits until the early leave request comes in, is seen, and is promptly accepted without much fanfare.
I stuff anything I don't want stolen in my rucksack and leave the rest here: a framed picture of my mother and I, my little moleskine journal and my trusty laptop are all taken. They sit at the bottom of the bag, above a thermos labelled "Mother" in years-old handwriting and a ceramic bowl wrapped in a t-shirt for protection. Among those objects I choose to leave behind are a set of pencils, a barren rolodex and a rosary. All three have gathered dust to varying degrees.
As I get up, my coworker Sara bumps into me. She spills a little coffee on her sleeve, but that's okay. She's got napkins, apparently.
She regards me through the eyes of a face with no distinguishable expression. I catch a glimpse of a squint after a second, which I suppose means she's trying to remember why it is I'm doing all this. After a second, she seems to remember somebody's dead.
"I'm sorry. I mean, good luck with all that," she tries, and I commend the effort. But I can see it in her eyes — she's wondering why I haven't moved on yet.
TALKING ABOUT ARRIVING HERE
IT'S COLD
This is the one. Looking over the edge of this bridge, I can see hers right below. The cavernous break in the bridge's structure marks where she fell, but the fog keeps her from view at the bottom. My heart aches from sadness and vertigo in equal measure.
My eyes cloud up a little but I blink it away. It's been seven years.
I get on my knees, which brush the frost of the wood bare. They slip a little, but stick in place slightly after a second. I shrug my rucksack off my back and unzip it. I shove past the photo, laptop and pretty little journal to get to the good stuff.
I pull out the thermos. A chill runs through me and settles in my feet as I realize that the thermos is thin enough to fit through the gaps in the railing. I set it down, but its slight warmth melts the frost and it slips. I catch it. I secure it between my knees for now.
Next out of the bag is the bowl. The stained old band tee protecting it is a little warm from its proximity to the thermos, so I put it on over my own. Combined with the thermos between my legs, it's not so bad.
I try to remember what I thought about saying on the way here, but it's better to be natural. It's easier now. It's been seven years.
Hey, mum.
Sure is cold out here, huh?
Brought you another gift. It's your favourite — potato and leek.
BLAH BLAH TALKING ABOUT SOUP.
God, I feel so rude talking to you out here sometimes. I always end up talking about life and death and things like that. I can almost tell what you're thinking: "Come on, Clare. Just because I'm dead doesn't mean we always have to talk about it."
It's just hard to think what to talk about when you're—
—not here.
