Friday Night

"You won't do it, pussy." The wind from the cars racing past whipped around me, blowing my hair in a variety of directions. My eyes burned into his back, nearly pushing him over the edge with just my glare.

He stood on the edge of the Ben Franklin Bridge, ridged. He reminded me of a statue he was so still. "You want a martyr, Abigail? Well, you've got one."

I laughed cynically. "I dare you."

He faced me now, a smirk on his face and a crazed look in his dark eyes. They were gleaming at me. He touched his forehead first, crossing himself. Before I could reach out and grab him, before I could stop him, before I could even blink - he was falling down, down. . .

down,

d o w n ,

down.

The last thing he'd said before he was out of my sight resonated in my ears, burning like a wildfire. "I bet you've never had a Friday night like this."