River 2 “Elder on the Bridge” Update

“In this darkness, I cannot wait. For years I have tried with great failure to bring about a revolution, some sort of peace for what happened. But the years pass on and on, and the longer they go on, these feelings, the more wretched I feel.

You don't know me very well, though you have spoken of me. I doubt most the people you communicate with even really understand what is happening, and why. And so my story falls to the side like all the others. A fluke or a random event.

That is all it was.

To them, but not me, because that day has defined my life since it happened, and though I didn't have control, the guilt sits heavy on me.

A little over three years ago I shared my story, and ever since then I haven't gone longer than a month without thinking about the old bridge where I used to live, a fear of heights, and bodies sitting broken in shallow water...

I won't repeat the story. There would be no point in that. One more mention isn't going to make it better, and if you don't know who I am yet, then I am simply wasting my time and yours. Just know that after my encounter with the Old Man, for years really, I felt like it had left me for the better.

I didn't really have control when he used my form to destroy those bullies...those kids. We were just kids really, and as cruel as they could be, that wasn't a good enough reason for what happened to them. The Old Man sounded genuine when he offered to help, and for a while, years really, that was how I saw it.

But things have changed a lot over the last three years. I live on Wellington Street now, and I have watched as the people of this stretch of road were consumed by some sort of pollution, resulting in the deaths of...too many.

Too many friends.

And while I have been here, I have shared my story, and people have universally met it with horror. At first, that didn't bother me. I was the outlier. That was fine by me. But the longer things went on the more people died, and the monsters that exist here began to make themselves known. And so I started to understand why people reacted the way they did.

The Old Man, that thing that feeds on pain and anguish, can appear benevolent or malicious, and even the greatest detractors believe that there is some good in what he does, trying to draw out people's trauma.

And you would think I would still see it that way, but I don't.

The world is changing, but the things here tend to be creatures of habit. They are capable of the appearance of change, but it isn't true. They don't really change. They just get better at what they do. And what they do is convince people that they are nothing more than a bitter taste in the back of your throat, and that so long as you don't cross them, you tend to be safe.

But...

So many died.

And people...those bullies...who were just kids, they died because The Old Man 'helped' me. Those kids are dead, and there is nothing I can say or do that will bring them back. All I can do is try to be honest, and find the truth.

And the truth, is that the monster didn't help me. He used me to get what he wanted. He used my pain as a lightening rod, he used my form to draw the bullies in, to find ways to trigger a fear response in them when they tried to fight back...

When they tried to stop their friends broken forms from being tossed over the edge of the bridge.

And he did that, because it made the pain sweeter. He did it, because that is what he is, not what he does. What he does is hurt, and what he is is hurt.

And I am hurt.

Those kids never got to grow up, and though I don't cry over them, I do over their families and friends. Even if they delighted in hurting me, their families and friends will never see them like that, and every time I saw them at the supermarket or the like, I could see the pain written all over their face. It is the kind of sadness of knowing that someone you wanted to see grow up never did.

And so I moved to Wellington Street, knowing I may see The Old Man again, but never those people left behind.

I used to not remember what happened when he took over.

But I dream now, and I remember all the details.

Every sensation, the pressure of his cold grip and the tears in their eyes.

The color of their paled, bloodied flesh...

The chill of the water...”

There is a house on my block where it shouldn't be. I am not particularly close to all my neighbors, but I know the house that should be there well enough. When I was little, I had a friend of mine who lived there, and we used to play with puzzles and go to see Disney films together. We weren't close, but we were close enough to leave a memory.

But their house isn't there anymore. In its place is something else, and I cannot explain how that could be. I have been hearing reports of changes, but they all came off as the mad ramblings of those who had lost touch with reality. But it isn't as if there aren't forces here that can do that...

But.

I don't understand. Why would a house simply disappear? I went and knocked on the door and the person who was there welcomed me like we were old friends or something, but I had never met them before? How can that be? I haven't been that out of sorts. No matter how much trouble I get in, my mind has always been something I could rely on.

Sometimes I feel separated. Okay, most of the time I feel separated. But I know what has happened happened, and now things are getting out of place. I was looking through the old letters you sent me, and I saw the one you sent me about Tracy...

When Tracy died.

She did die, but she didn't. She is dead, but she isn't anymore.

I am losing my mind. I have to. Either that, or there is something very very wrong.

Maybe it is in my head...

I was walking the other night, when I came upon a building I had seen so many times. It was an old office, city style front steps with mail slots just inside the front door. I looked, and it said that the main office was for hodology. Depending on the context, that could mean many things. It was open, so I went inside to see what it was all about, but I wish I hadn't.

Apparently they did connectomics, or the study of neural pathways within the brain. I was chatting with the person at the front, when a doctor came out and gave me a weird look. He asked me if he could help me, and introduced himself. I told him my name, and I told him I was simply curious as to what they do there.

He said that he was surprised to see me, since the last time he had seen me I had been a kid. I asked him what the hell he was talking about, but he said that when I was little my parents had brought me in to try and address my night terrors. He told me that normally there are others who are used for such things, but such avenues hadn't really come up with anything.

He said he could give me a copy of the file, and he said that I stood out to him because my parents had not followed up with him after he gave them the results.

He said that there was...I had symptoms of oppositional defiant disorder, as well as some initial signs of a dissociative disorder.

By this time he had taken me to another room to go over what he had found out, confused as to why there was no followup.

I asked him if there was ever anything that was able to confirm all of this. That is when he showed a brain scan from when I was child. There was something wrong with it, but I couldn't tell why. He said that there was something wrong with the limbic system, but there was more to it than that.

According to the brain scan and other tests, I had something terrible happen to me when I was little, and the injuries to my brain and my cortex proved it. He scheduled a new scan for me next week, and I haven't told my dad yet.

What even could I say?

I said to the doctor that I had been having experiences of memory loss and changes in connection with my body. Maybe I am really sick.

Maybe there is really something wrong with me.