The mud made me feel suction cupped to the earth as I forced myself up and out onto the clay creek bank. It was pitch black, and I could hear the voices above me on the bridge that I'd just jumped off; the tree that broke my fall as I promptly broke every branch and possibly every bone in my body as I went down and landed in the water. I'd probably dropped about twenty feet.

I pulled myself into a small sandy hole that was maybe two yards away from the water and just in time for me to hear gunfire from above and the sounds of bullets hitting the water; I guess they wanted to make sure I was dead.

I honestly wonder what got me here; what did I do? Why did I do it? I don't know; I know I was cold, wet, and in pain; my body was caked and plastered in some places with the mixture of my blood and the red clay Carolina mud.

My mind drifted to her; the little piece of heaven that I got wrapped up in this shit for; I could imagine where she was, what she was doing, and if she even knew what was happening right now, as I hoped they were too damn lazy to come down here and take a look around. However, a slug to the temple would be quick, but maybe getting accepted by the elements racked with pain would be a more tragic and theatrical end to m because, then again, I wasn't built for happy endings, in my opinion.

Because every time I tried to have one or even think of one, I'd be proven just how foolish I was. Just like right now, with the hooting, hollering, and carrying on above me on this little country bridge nearly out in the middle of nowhere, they'll probably take off, and the cops will come looking. That's if anyone called them, and if they did, it probably wouldn't matter because I'll be dead by then.