This story is a non-consensual kidnapping fantasy. Don't do this at home. Warnings for mentions of depression, emotional abuse, and talk of suicide.
I hope she'll be here tonight.
No one on the path takes a second look at me as they pass by. Why should they? I'm just another man in jeans and a flannel shirt with an e-reader in his hands sitting on a log bench. Probably the best description they could give is "medium height, darkish hair, horn-rimmed glasses". There are thousands of men like me in this small city. It's an air of anonymity that I have cultivated quite deliberately since winning that state lottery two years ago. I had read extensively of the risks facing lottery winners. The ticket had been claimed by a lawyer in the name of a Delaware corporation; the publicity shoot where the big novelty cheque had been handed over had been attended by an actor hired for the occasion. The lottery corporation had put up some quiet fuss about it all. But they needed the fanfare of awarding a fifty million dollar payout more than they needed my identity. I then decamped from the state in question immediately afterward to this city to live a quiet, comfortable life. My only indulgence is my little hobby.
I peer over the e-reader to the bridge. It is a simple suspension type: two cables in a graceful curve supporting a deck of steel mesh, with stout cables at shoulder height linked to a web of support strands. It crosses over the river that flows through the park. The waters below boil over a series of small rapids. All around are low hills covered with trees bursting with autumn colors. They screen out the skyscrapers of the central business district to the north and east. You could almost think that one was in the wilderness even though there is a light traffic of pedestrians and cyclists on the gravel paths winding through the park. The number of passerby has dwindled as the sun starts to pass below the horizon. The air turns nippy as a mid-October evening begins. I up the backlight on my e-reader to as part of my cover. I take a light coat out of the backpack by my feet. Her classes should have ended by now. Perhaps she is studying late in the library. I will stay another hour before returning home.
Footsteps crunch on the path. I stay in control of myself as she passes by me. Unusual. She usually takes the path on the other side of the river to the bridges. I risk a peek at her. God, she is so lovely. I was smitten with her the moment I happened to see her walk past me in the street on the way to the light rail stop a block from the private school she attends. Wine-red hair falls in ringlets around cherubic features that could be out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Her lips are full. I imagine kissing them. Mind you, she would be prettier if she smiled. She always has a serious air that ill-befits a girl just turned eighteen. I find that the hazel eyes behind those silvery wire-rim glasses have a hint of sadness to them. The body beneath the green blazer is a bit heavier than fashionable these days. I have heard her harpy of a mother berating her. I think that all it needs is a corset drawn snug to accentuate her figure. Her arms cross over her breasts as if she were ashamed of her buxom enchantments. In contrast, the legs emerging below the knee-length green-and-black tartan kilt are toned from her habit of walking rather than being driven in the family BMW. The white knee-high socks cling enticingly to her calves.
She is so close. In a second, I could apply some of the contents of my backpack to her body. There is a clearing just off the path where we could get acquainted. No. This is a game. An indulgence. So the unwary girl walks past me, eyes downcast, without realizing the danger two feet away. I am content to spy on her as she walks out onto the bridge. She does this two or three times a week. She stares down into the roiling waters for a half hour before heading home. I sit in various spots watching her. Sometimes, I jerk off into a handkerchief thinking of the things I might do to her in the playroom I set up. I think of pounding into her until she screams. I think of whips and clamps and so many things to apply to her body.
She takes off her shoes and socks.
She climbs over a guard cable.
My knapsack is slung over a shoulder as I run to the end of the bridge closest to me. She is arched out with head down, staring at the waters below, when my feet hit the metal mesh of the deck. Her head whips out to stare at me. I freeze when her fingers loosen their grip. I walk much more slowly out towards her. I stop three feet away, folding my arms on the guard cable. I stare down at the rapids below. I can hear her frantic breaths in the stillness of the twilight. The bridge thrums in sympathy with her trembling. She is so close to jumping. Slowly, I take out a hip flask from a jeans pocket. I do like finishing the evening with a little snort. Rye whiskey does a slow burn down my throat. I hold it out to her.
"I am pretty sure that's illegal." Her voice has a touch of Irish lilt to it. "There are signs at the entrance. The fines are high."
"Well, we can keep it a secret." I raise an eyebrow. "One last toot before you go?"
"You're not going to tell me I have too much to live for?" Her voice drips with bitterness. "That suicide is a sin?"
"I am sure you have weighed the pros and cons," I say. "Far be it for me to presume to lecture you."
"Good." She sniffles. "I'm done with it. Being fat. Never making good enough grades. That I'll never get a man if I keep on like this."
"All sound motivations." I sip my drink. "Slight problem with implementation."
"If the falls doesn't get me, the rocks down there will," she says.
"Problem is, survivors who jumped say that they regretted it the instant they let go." I spit down into the water. "You might only drop for a second or two. But that might be a long two seconds."
