Crash Los Diablos Prequel Novella
Isabella-19 Years Old
Cold, fall, San Francisco mornings have always been my favorite. The way the breeze smells like the salty bay as the fog tumbles over the water has always brought me peace, stillness , particularly on mornings when I wake up gasping and covered in sweat. I know it’s going to be just one of those days. It’s difficult to shake the feelings of hopelessness and shame that cling to my body long after the nightmares have gone.
I used to let negative feelings swallow me whole, allow my mind to fall through the cracks of the past, drowning in memories of sorrow. Sometimes, I couldn’t even get out of bed – I’d say I was reflecting , healing , but I wasn’t doing any of that. No, I was just drowning.
Drowning.
Drowning.
Drowning.
I was in so deep, I either had to get out or give in. Give in to the weight of the water, the pressure on my chest, the deep burn for air in my lungs. Give in and give the fuck up. Let go, and finally just be free. Sometimes, that’s all I wanted to do. Other times, I’d be reminded of why I had to keep going. The sun would finally crack through the gloom and spill through my window, sparking some tiny amount of joy. A text from a friend or a call from my mom would ping on my phone, a reminder to see, to care, to love.
But God, those days when I’d wake up to the more horrific nightmares, days riddled with such pain, anger, and guilt. The nightmares would cling to me, and the memories I worked so hard to bury would come out to play. They’d dance through my brain, taunting me, regaling my brokenness, my failures. They’d follow me, leaving a fog of nothingness in their wake.
Those days are the worst. They’re days of choices. To wrap my car around a tree, or not. To take too many sleeping pills or throw them away. To slice or not to slice.
Today is a day of choices: to jump or not to jump.
I woke up in a state of panic, drenched in sweat, shaking uncontrollably, and screaming loud enough to wake Alyssa, my roommate. She barged into my room already knowing what she’d find, and once again, I had deal with someone who cares and therefore pities me, pities the tiny part of my past she knows.
It’s nothing compared to what plagues me. I let her think what she wants about the cause of my nightmares. I’d prefer pity to disgust any day, but today, the pity is too much.
Today, the pity in her eyes when she came to check on me was trumped by her yet again suggesting I’d be better off living at home with my parents. If I thought that would help take care of “the issue,” as if it’s a matter of where my bed is versus how fucked up my mind is, I’d do it.
Her suggestion leaves me feeling overwhelmingly ashamed and unwanted. My presence makes her uncomfortable, but going home isn’t an option. It’s nauseating knowing that the thing that keeps me here , my friends and family, also holds them back, that my existence is more of a hindrance than anything else. If I stay, I stay for me. If I leave, I leave for them.
At least, that’s the thought I had this morning. So, I got dressed in some yoga pants and a hoodie, then pulled out the letters I wrote for Mom and Dad years ago, the first time I found myself making choices I never followed through with. The newer, shorter letter I’d written for Alyssa joined them now.
That’s it, just three letters . All my life has amounted to can be summarized in three pieces of paper. Three relationships. Three people who’d notice if I was gone. I left them on the island in the kitchen, grabbed my car keys, and walked out the door. Today was the day to end it all and those were my final goodbyes, neatly wrapped and sealed in small, crisp white envelopes.
I once watched a documentary about the Golden Gate Bridge, about the overwhelming number of people who’ve committed suicide there. There was a survivor on the show who described what it felt like to jump, to fall, to crash , and to live. People say there’s romance to it, dying at the bridge.
I don’t find it romantic at all. I find it quick, easy. None of the people who love me will need to identify me. Maybe they won’t find me at all. I won’t have to wait for the pills to kick in, won’t have to risk someone pumping my stomach. I won’t have to wait for the blood to spill and risk having done it wrong. Although that man survived, he was an anomaly. It’s almost guaranteed that I won’t. I weigh 120 pounds soaking wet, and I’m not wearing steel-toed boots. I won’t live through this—all it will take is just one step.
The only beauty I find in the situation is that I’ll take my last, gasping breath in this foggy, chilly, fall morning that used to bring me so much joy. I say used to, because after my realization today, I don’t deserve it. I refuse to bring the people around me down anymore. I’ve ruined too many lives: I will ruin no one else.
I pull into the dirt parking lot and leave my white Honda CR V parked in a corner. I only hesitate for a moment when deciding to leave my bag with my keys, wallet, and phone inside; there’s literally no point in taking anything with me. I close the door and look to my left, to the path leading to the bridge, and take the first step. I don’t allow myself to falter or stop; one foot after the other. I walk as quickly as I can. I just want to get this over with. I breathe the foggy air in and out, in and out. I try to expel the memories slamming into me with full force.
Do you know what a whore is, Little Doll? It’s you.
This is your fault. You know that right? You did this.
Do you see her face? It’s your fault she’s broken.
One foot in front of the other. Keep going. Don’t stop. It’s almost over. My feet pound on the trail until I finally feel the harshness of metal beneath my feet. The bridge.
You are disgusting.
Trash.
Filthy whore.
Slut.
Ugly.
Go, go, go. My breathing turns ragged as I walk as quickly as I can towards the middle of the bridge. I know it’s where the water is the deepest. I’ve barely looked around, so caught up in my memories. I take a moment to stop and look at my surroundings, making sure no one’s around, that no one will see me do this. It’s still so early in the morning; the sun isn’t even up yet and there’s no one else here. Light commuter traffic drives by, blissfully unaware of what I’m about to do. Good, don’t look . Keep going, keep going, keep going.
Ella, you’d be happier living with your parents.
You should go.
You.
Should.
Go.
My feet fumble mid-step, and I’m jolted out of my memories, only to realize I’ve reached my destination. I look back at the roadway, and surprisingly find a lull in cars. There’s one biker on the walkway on the opposite side of the bridge, but they’re facing the other direction and already passed me. Good, I’m alone. I’ll need to be quick. Quick is better. Quick leaves no time for thoughts, no time for choices. I look at the railing, preparing myself to climb over, taking a sharp inhale at what’s before me. I’m not alone at all.
Not.
Alone.
At.
All.
Standing on the other side of the railing is a man. A huge man. I’m suddenly in a state of shock. My feet feel cemented to the ground as I stare at his back. He’s facing the water, his hands on the railing on either side of him. I can’t really make out his features or his age, but I can tell he’s tall, much taller than me, but I’m only 5′3, so that’s not saying much.
His hair is black and hangs in loose waves down to his shoulders, blowing gently to the side in the breeze. I can see his muscular back and biceps through his long-sleeved black shirt. Looking closer, I spot tattoos creeping out from below his sleeves, circling his wrists. I look to either side of the walkway and find that there’s still no one else. It’s just me and him.
I look at the man and find his back heaving, his breaths coming out in what I’m assumed are pants. He’s scared. I’m genuinely unsure of what to do. He’s on the opposite side of the railing, staring down at the bay, so I know why he’s here. He’s here for the same thing I am. He’s still heaving enough that I can see his back shaking, his hands practically vibrating with what I assume are nerves.
In the midst of a choice , he’s wavering on the side of not jumping. He’s holding onto life the way he’s holding onto that railing, hard enough for white knuckles and shaking. He’s making the choice to stay, the choice I’ve made so many times before. I wonder if he knows that his intense hesitation means he wants to stay. Maybe he just needs someone to tell him he doesn’t have to make this choice at all.
Ironic, isn’t it?
I hesitantly take a step forward. I don’t want to scare him, but I really don’t think anyone who hesitates like that should be doing what he’s contemplating. No, he has something to live for, that’s why he’s holding on. Maybe saving him is my final task, something to clear some of my very dirty slate before I go. God, I really don’t want to accidentally freak him out, make him fall off this damn bridge.
“Umm excuse me?” I call out quietly.
He doesn’t hear me over the wind.
“Umm, sir, hello?” I call a bit louder.
He jumps lightly, telling me he heard me this time. Oh shit . I take another step forward, closer to him, just in case. He turns his head to the side, looking down at me, and our eyes connect.
Holy Jesus, crap balls. He’s hot. Not the time for these thoughts, Ella.
He’s young. He couldn’t be much older than me, maybe in his early twenties. His eyes are black pools of night sky, and I swear to God they twinkle with stars as he stares down at me. I feel like I’m drowning in them, in their intensity, in him.
I’m not even sure what he looks like at this point. No, I’m too caught up in sinking deeper and deeper into the pits of whoever this man is. I could fall into them and lose myself, sink into those eyes and never climb back out, and strangely, I don’t want to.
Distantly, I hear a horn blaring, and it jars us both out of whatever staring contest we’d been stuck in. I blink rapidly while he shakes his head quickly, breaking the spell we were both seemingly under, and I take a second to really look at his face while he stares back at me.
His thick black hair lays in loose waves around his face. It has an easy going, unkempt vibe that looks effortlessly beautiful. His skin is a golden tan, like he gets way more sun than San Fran affords us in the cooler months. His lips are so perfectly full and kissable with the slightest hint of natural pink to them, like the wind and cold were just slightly getting to them.
His strong jawline is covered in stubble, and the darkness of his short beard makes his eyes look darker black, if that’s even possible. Those tattoos not only peak out across his wrists under his slightly pulled up sleeves -- I can make out one on the side of his neck, too. I find myself wanting to know if they cover his whole chest and arms. I bet they do.
He’s built. He’s wide, strong, and beautiful, so fucking beautiful.
I really should be afraid of him. I know a man doesn’t have to be huge to be scary, but he’s got both size and looks in spades. Tormentors come in all shapes and sizes. I should be nervous, but I’m not. Not at all.
His gaze is so intense, I don’t know if he wants to pull me in or push me the hell away. I shake myself out of unabashedly checking him out, realizing this is the wrong damn time for that shit, but he’s been staring at me, too. I didn’t miss the way his eyes took in my entire frame, scraping up every inch of my body.
It feels like we’ve been staring for an eternity, when in reality, it’s been less than ten minutes. I suddenly feel like I know him, and a massive wave of panic hits me at the thought of him letting go of the railing, of me not being able to save him.
What do I say? I have no idea what to do, which is why I just stare. Maybe we’re staring because we want to know who will break first, who will say something. Maybe he’s waiting for me to say something life-altering, something to stop him. Thankfully, he breaks first, keeping me from feeling like the fraud I’m starting to become.
“Well, aren’t you going to tell me not to jump?” His voice is deep, warm, and velvety; suddenly, my bones don’t feel so cold anymore.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly with a shrug. “Do you want me to stop you?”
That seems to catch him off guard. He rears back slightly and tilts his head to the side, considering my answer. He stares for another moment before responding.
“I’m not sure what I want you to say, but I didn’t think it would be that. I figured I’d get some philosophical bullshit about the merits of life and the selfishness of standing on this side of the railing.”
I don’t respond right away – how am I supposed to approach this? This isn’t a side I expected to be on this morning. I feel like I’m invested now, and if I let him jump, the guilt of a life lost will surely push me over the edge as well. Not that it matters; whether my conscience is guiltier or my slate slightly cleaner, it won’t stop what I need to do.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be the end of the road for him, and looking at him right now, I really hope it isn’t. I’m still drowning in murky waters; I don’t know if I’m cut out to save anyone’s life when my own flutters so freely in the wind. I speak without giving it much more thought.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Would you like a jumping partner?”
“What the fuck did you just say?” he sputters.
“You heard me. You kind of stole my spot, so maybe we can go together?” I take another step forward until I reach the railing. I step onto the small concrete base, trying to figure out how to get my tiny body over the side. Maybe we’ll go together, maybe it’ll make him find another spot, or maybe it’ll snap him out of his decision altogether.
“What the fuck are you doing? Don’t you dare,” he growls. He literally growls, which might hae made me laugh if this situation wasn’t so fucked up.
“I’m joining you. Like I said, you’re in my spot. Fuck, I didn’t realize how tall the fence was going to be.”
He stares at me, completely taken aback, still death-gripping the fence while I try my damnedest to climb the gate without bumping him.
“It’s only tall if you’re the size of a child. How old are you, anyway? You’re too young for this shit. You shouldn’t be here, little girl,” he throws back.
“That’s a bit sizeist, don’t you think? I’m 19, and you’re too hot for this shit. You shouldn’t be here, either. How do you like that?” I quip, irritated. I still can’t figure out how to get over this fence, and I decide to give up for the moment to argue back at the Greek god in front of me. “And another thing,” I continue. “Not all children are short. I’m sure you weren’t a freaking pine tree when you were a kid.”
Sizest? Who says things like that, Ella? God, I have no idea how to interact with men.
He stares at me for a moment, then shocks the hell out of me and laughs. On the ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge looking down at the water, he freaking laughs.
“Pine tree? Sizeist? I don’t think that’s a word, but fuck, seriously? My life is dangling by a thread, and you insult me? Wow, what a lifesaver you are,” he scoffs.
“Well for one, I also said you’re hot, so a compliment and an insult. I’m glad you’re finding this little morning outing so hilarious. Yes, it most definitely is a word. I’ll get you a dictionary if you climb back over. What are you, like 6′7? You’re a giant. I guess I should’ve called you Redwood ,” I ramble awkwardly with a giggle.
“I’m only a giant because you’re tiny, Thumbelina ,” he chuckles.
I stop any further attempt to climb over the railing and take a look at our surroundings, realizing the sun’s coming up and traffic’s increasing. Apparently, my plans for the day are blown and now, I just need to save this man so we can get on with our lives, or lack thereof.
“Thumbelina? Cute, real cute.” I tap my fingers on the railing as I consider him. “So, are we getting on with this show or what? The sun is coming up. What’s it going to be, big guy? Are you coming or going? Personally, I vote that you climb your tall ass back over the railing. Please do it carefully, because, as you’ve pointed out, I’m one third your size and won’t be able to save you.”
I really hope playing off the levity of this conversation and his willingness to joke with me is the right way to go. I don’t want to go all dark and storm-cloudy on him right now. Unleashing the thoughts really swirling around in my brain would be enough to make us both jump.
He stares at me for a moment, then cracks another small smile before looking back toward the water.
Oh fuck . Thinking I’ve lost him, I internally start to panic. The moment and the jokes are over: he’s decided to go. Suddenly, a huge hammer of loss slams into me. I feel like this will be the last conversation I’ll ever have with this man. Even though I was so dead set on, well, being dead just a little while ago, the thought of losing him physically hurts my soul.
What an insane feeling.
I go to reach for him when he looks back at me with a huge grin, which catches me off guard. Oh my god! Is he going to smile at me while he jumps? What kind of sick shit is this?
Without warning, he shocks the crap out of me yet again and begins to turn back around to face me, which is the scariest thirty seconds of my life. As soon as he gets his leg over the railing, his right hand slips. I feel like it’s happening in slow motion. His grin falters and his hand flails. He loses his hold on the railing and looks up at me with a face full of complete and utter terror.
I instinctively throw my arms around his middle and use my entire body to pull him to me, effectively steadying him. He grabs the railing once more and throws his other leg over. I, on the other hand, cannot bring myself to let go, fearing that the second I do, he’ll tumble back over the ledge.
“Hey, hey, uh, thanks for that, I’m on the safe side now,” he awkwardly laughs.
Still, I hold on for dear life. I’m not sure why, but I can’t let go of him. Maybe this pseudo-hug feels better than it should, considering I’m practically mauling a stranger, but the warmth radiating off his cold body surprises me. So do his arms when they hesitantly wrap around my shoulders. The one-sided creepy hug becomes so much more when he gives up his hesitation and holds me back.
His shirt is cold from standing in the wind for so long above the bay. I’m sure he probably feels cold as fuck right now, but I’ve never felt so warm in my life. I squeeze hard, my face plastered to his chest -- his very hard chest. He feels like a rock, like lava rock: hard, unbending, hot, scary, and utterly safe.
Safe on this side of the railing, safe like a protector, safe like home .
We stand there, holding each other, holding onto life as though it’s as fleeting as the San Francisco breeze blowing past us. I hold onto him, listening to his heavy breathing and pounding heartbeat beneath my cheek. It’s warring with the sound of my own, my heaving chest, the whoosh of air leaving my lungs. The thought that I so utterly did not want his life to go to waste barrels through me like a ton of bricks. I wanted to save this perfect stranger, one who brought me such heavy moments of terror, joy, and humor when I was so ready to throw it all away.
That my first thought was that his life had value and mine does not shakes me to my core. The minutes pass by and our heartbeats begin to slow, almost synchronizing. My breathing steadies and his quiets. I don’t want to release him; I want to give him comfort as much as I want to take it for myself. I inhale deeply, steadying myself to part ways, heaviness slamming into my chest at the thought.
Inhaling deep was a bad idea: the suicidal Greek god smells like a fucking aphrodisiac. It’s pepper, sage, and cedarwood, warm and spicy. I hold onto that smell, hoping to never forget it. Then I realize I haven’t showered in two days and woke up covered in sweat. I barely threw on sweatpants and a dirty hoodie this morning. There’s no reason to get dressed up for your own death. Except now, I wish I’d at least put on deodorant for the occasion.
I slowly pull my head back and tentatively look up to find his eyes closed. Sensing me pulling away, he cracks open his eyes and looks down at me. We continue to stare at each other, still locked in our embrace, sharing the craziest moment I’ve ever had with a complete stranger. His dark eyes seem to bore straight into my soul, and suddenly, I feel completely open and exposed to this stranger. I fear he may be able to see so deep that he’ll find all my secrets, all my shame. That worry breaks the spell. I let out a small cough to break the awkward silence and finally let go, stepping back and severing our connection.
“Ummm, stupid question, but are you okay?” I quietly ask.
He hasn’t stopped looking down at me, even when I moved away, and a tiny grin crosses his beautiful face.
“You know what? I might be. Surprising, isn’t it?” he laughs.
“I’m glad I was here to interrupt your moment of insanity. Well, actually, I don’t know you. For all I know, you could be insane all the time. This could’ve been a moment of clarity for you,” I joke with a grin of my own.
He laughs, but then his smile drops and he takes a step forward, eating up the small space I’d created between us.
“Were you really going to jump?” he asks, so quietly I barely hear him over the wind.
I’m not sure why, but I decide to continue with this raw honesty streak with a complete stranger.
“Yeah, I was. It’s what I came here for,” I whisper back, too ashamed to let the words come out any louder. I don’t know why I feel ashamed, but in his presence, I do. I don’t want him to think less of me, which is silly because we basically met at a bar for suicidal folks.
“What about now? Are you still going to jump?” he asks, looking back and forth between my eyes, assessing me, peering into me .
I think about it for a brief second. The answer screams back at me so suddenly, I’m surprised by it.
“No, I don’t think I am, actually.” He stares directly into my eyes, searching for something. I think he’s gauging my answer, trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth.
He nods his head slightly, seemingly accepting my admission.
“Well then, let’s go,” he commands in his deep, velvety voice. His response throws me off balance for a moment, unsure what he means. My brows furrow with confusion. He holds his hand out to me, as if it clarifies that he means now, together.
“What? Go where?” I question.
“We’re getting the fuck off this bridge, together, now. I’m not jumping, you’re not jumping. You saved me, and now I’m saving you. We leave together,” he demands, as if leaving with a complete stranger is no big deal . I guess, after the last ten minutes of our lives, we’re not exactly strangers anymore. So, I do the only thing that feels right.
I reach out, and I take his hand.
He looks down at our joined hands, my tiny hand swallowed up in his, and smiles down at me.
“So, how did you get here today?” he laughs.
“You’ll never guess, but I drove to my death today. How did you get here?” I laugh back. Making light of such a morbid situation seems fucked up, but at this moment, it feels like a tether to life.
“I drove too. I’m in the south parking lot. You?”
I nod. “Yep. Guess we’re headed back to life, then, aren’t we?” I question and tug him towards the lot.
“I guess we are. Life. Living… alive ,” he murmurs to himself, a note of shock or awe in his voice, which one, I wasn’t sure.
We walk together silently across the bridge, hand in hand, towards the parking lot, both deep in thought. I’m not sure what he’s thinking about, more than likely his close call with death. I’ve had so many that I’m not jarred by why I came here today. No, it’s more so the revelation that on a day when I was so completely set on finally ending it, a reason to stay presented itself in the most shocking of ways.
The fact that a human connection with a total stranger made my numb soul feel drastic things floors me. I didn’t think I was capable of feeling the little sparks I feel now. I didn’t think I could feel such an intense connection with another person. In the moment our eyes first locked, I felt butterflies, warmth, all sorts of other emotions buzzing in my soul, effectively shocking it out of its coma, its numbness. Those sparks and butterflies made me feel something I haven’t felt in such a long time: hope .
Hope for happiness.
Hope for the future.
Hope for emotion.
Hope for more.
More.