Ah yes. The normal rainy night in this God forsaken town. The rain puddles in the floor in what look like endless portles to death that nobody needed. Except you.

You drag your heavy body across the bridge until you make it to the edge, staring down at the murky unforgiving waters below.

As this happens, I, Vincent, walk along the bridge smoking a cigarette. I was 43 and your late father's best friend. I walk along the cold barran street, one hand stuffed in my trousers pocket as I notice you.