You might ask me why I fell for such a ruthless
underdog. A man plagued with a deadly iron
fist of control that saw no end to its fill.
Well, I was young once…and it all began with
that quick look of his eyes that one October
evening night, when my whole world broke wide
I saw him standing on a bridge overlooking the
river of our small Tennessee town. The
night was thick and dark, masked in a foggy cold
that sent shivers through me as I gazed.
He was not so tall really, perhaps five foot
eight, and his appearance emanated one not to be
trifled with. He wore a cowboy hat, a
bright white one, with a long black tassel that
hung down behind. His jeans were black,
bullet holes shot through the sides…that should
be an interesting story, I thought to myself.
He didn’t look mean, just intimidating I suppose
you could say, as he leaned over that bridge
side, watching those boats passing by.
Maybe it was his strong jaw, that scruff
emulating a deep shadow over him; maybe it was
the way he held his frame as if he would pull
backwards and bring that whole, hellish old
bridge down with him. I don’t know what
drew me…but I was drawn; drawn like a moth to
flame they say, and I was snagged deep. I
never knew that moment just before he spoke, was
going to be my last opportunity to get away.
“Watcha doin up here?” he asked me, never
turning his head to look behind. What,
could the man feel me come like some spooked
horse in the night? I stopped and looked
at him, my eye crooked into a curious state.
“Well now, you’re the one leaning over that old
bridge in the middle of the night…shouldn’t that
be a question for present state?” My words
echoed off of him in my cool southern drawl, and
though I couldn’t see him I knew he smiled.