Under the Bridge

There's this one bridge by the hospital that She Who Must Be Kept works for. When she was still on site, I used to have to cross this bridge to get to a specific bus stop to catch a certain bus to go to the mall when I went to work with her.

I hated crossing over this bridge. I would always get distracted and look over the edge at the water running below. There was this seaweed that grew on the rocks. The water would push on it, and it gave the illusion of flowing hair from a swimmer.

I hated it.

I hated those rocks, and I hated that seaweed.

I have nightmares about these women in the water. Like harpies, maybe? These women would swim in a river, and sometimes their green, scaly faces would break the surface, slowly rising like some sort of glorious goddess.

And then they would open their yellow eyes, their black serpentine tongues slithering out in a warning hiss. And they all had flowing green hair.

I know, of course, that the seaweed covered rocks are just seaweed covered rocks. There are no murderous harpy women to pull me under.

I just don't want to take my changes.