by Lewis Scott
The Drive There
I rolled the windows down and drove toward the trailhead. The breeze carried in the sounds of birds, leaves, and distant traffic. Each familiar sight, sound, and smell filled me with bittersweet nostalgia as I embarked on this journey.
4,400 Steps
The first 4,400 steps were the hardest. Each step was a battle against myself, a conscious decision I had to make over and over again. As the sun rose higher, the heat intensified. With every step, the soles of my shoes stuck to the softened asphalt.
A more religious person might have seen this growing discomfort as a divine sign—a clear message to abandon the journey and retrace their steps. Four thousand steps in—too far to turn back. I kept going.
1.88 Miles
At 1.88 miles the trail shifted—smooth asphalt gave way to cracked concrete. A warped wooden bridge loomed ahead, a testament to years of neglect and harsh weather. Its once-ornate iron railings were now obscured by rust, casualties of time.
27 Times
I took in a final snapshot of my life—my own flickering humanity—drowned in self-made chaos. I focused on the rhythm that proved I was still here: the rise and fall of my chest, the steady thrum of my heart.
Twenty-seven steps north. Each footfall was deliberate, a quiet act of resistance. Pause. I felt the ridges of my rubber soles catch on the warped timber beneath me. Turn. My body moved with mechanical precision. Twenty-seven steps south.
A ritual. A mantra. A desperate attempt to stay calm while everything inside fractured. Repeat.
45 Feet
I looked over the railing, down at the river. I watched turtles and birds moving about their day. Looking directly down, I saw tranquility; a silence washed over my anxious thoughts. I watched the people around me, waiting for a moment alone.
Forty-five feet separated me from the river’s surface, below that, an uncharted distance to the riverbed.
When the moment arrived, I gripped the sun-warmed railing. I stood up quickly, closed my eyes, took note of the way my feet burned from the heat of the ledge, and stepped off.
1.68 Seconds
It was a moment of weightlessness that started the countdown—a silent declaration of intent. The cool air whipped against my exposed skin as both feet left the safety of the railing. A sharp inhale filled my lungs, the air rushing in, stealing my breath and thoughts. Yet in that moment, I found unexpected peace.
For 1.68 seconds, I was free. I had taken control of my life. I had finally ended the pain. I was free from everything.
I thought fear would hit me midair. I expected regret to claw at my chest the way it had for others. But it didn’t. It was quiet, finally. I was weightless and without concern for the first time. I was in control of my destiny, a level of autonomy I had never experienced before.
Impact
The timer struck zero as my feet shattered the water’s surface. A few moments later, I was shin-deep in the Neuse’s oozy silt. The impact reverberated through my body; a crunch echoed from my knees. A searing pain erupted from my hips. I was overwhelmed by water. The sheer force of it. The unforgiving gravity of my decision.
Stuck in the thick, swirling current, the realization crashed over me: I had failed. The plan hadn’t worked—and now I had to decide if drowning was how I wanted it to end. The river, once a serene backdrop, lived up to its name—a relentless noose around my neck. I felt the pressure around me decrease as I began to surface, following the bubbles that rose to the surface of the murky blue-green water, the sun’s reflection shimmered above me—a faint guide back to air.
The Turn
With every ounce of strength I had left, I kicked off the riverbed, reaching for the sunlit shimmer above. My arms flailed, more instinct than form, cutting through the weight of water and regret. My fingers found the riverbank, muddy, crumbling, and clawed at it like an animal desperate to live.
Pain screamed through my limbs, each movement sending waves of agony through my battered frame. Still, something in me, ancient and defiant, refused to let go.
I didn’t want to die. Not like this.
1.88 Miles
The 1.88 mile hike back felt impossible. My mind flinched with panic, and my body was drenched in shame. The confidence that had once fueled my journey from the trailhead had evaporated.
4,400 Steps
Each one of the 4,400 footfalls sent a jolt of pain through my legs, a silent plea for the sweet relief of the car’s reprieve. Every breath was a desperate prayer that no one would notice the river water that dripped off my body, the subtle tremble in my hands, or the sadness on my face. If someone asked, “Are you okay?” the dam would break. I couldn’t bear the weight of their concern, the pity in their eyes. So I pushed myself harder, willing my legs to move faster, my pace quickening in a futile attempt to hide from my own shame.
The Drive Home
The return drive felt unfamiliar—heat blasting against the damp chill still clinging to my skin. I sank into the seat, numb, watching streetlights smear across the windshield like ghosts of the morning. The silence was different now. Heavier.
Later, the sound of rushing water filled the bathroom and panic clawed at my chest. My hands trembled as I turned the faucet. But I didn’t stop. I watched the steam rise, slow and soft, and with a tired breath, lowered myself into the tub—letting the warmth swallow the cold that hadn’t left me since the river.
Bruises surfaced slowly across my legs and hips, blooming like ink beneath my skin. Proof of impact. Evidence that I was still here.
Now
Sometimes I still reflect on that moment… what it was like to look down and see tranquility.
I go back, not to the edge—but near it. I walk the trail again, feel the bridge’s groan beneath my feet, listen to the river moving beneath me.
I don’t step up. I don’t look down.
Not quite free of whispers of ideation, but now I know they lie.
Lewis Scott
Lewis Scott is an intersex writer based in Raleigh North Carolina, whose work explores themes of identity, resilience, and mental health. This is their first publication.
Roger Camp
Roger Camp is the author of three photography books including the award winning Butterflies in Flight (Thames & Hudson, 2002). His documentary photography has been awarded the prestigious Leica Medal of Excellence. His work has appeared in numerous journals including The New England Review, American Chordata and the New York Quarterly. He is represented by the Robin Rice Gallery, NY.