by Brian Fleming

Created on: January 13, 2009

Redemption on the St. Johns Bridge

The depressed man trudges solemnly through the dense night fog, towards the center of the St. Johns Bridge. His shoulders are bent; the weight of the heavens bears down upon them. The impenetrable fog bears down on the man like a physical manifestation of the sin the man keeps bottled up inside. I've been a disappointment to everyone I've ever meet. No one can save a wretch like me.

With each pathetic step the man takes, gloomy thoughts oppress his mind, just as the intense fog pressures him from the outside. One tragic memory after another takes center stage in the man's miserable subconscious, forcing him to relive their depressing scenes one after the other.

In his mind's eye, the husband sees the bare thigh, glistening in the soft hotel lamp light. "What's the matter, Sugar?" The seductive woman whispers, her mouth barely opening; the words forced to squeeze past her soft lips. "But my wifemy kids" the man whispers back, though the seductress doesn't hear. The sultry woman begins to remove layers of the man's clothes, reminiscent of the Potiphar's wife, so many years ago. But, alas, unlike Joseph, the husband falls to the seductions of the whore. He removes the last of his clothing. The husband lies on top of the temptress. As the husband plunges into the ugly dark pit, the name of his wife forms itself on his sweaty lips. The man's lips make contact with the prostitute's; the shape of his wife's name is destroyed, not to return for hours.

The man's shoulders droop as though he carries the weight of his numerous sins upon them. As each horrible scene replays itself in the darkness of the man's unconscious, the invisible weight pressing down on upon his shoulders multiplies exponentially.

Now the man sees, as though he were there now, instead of on this isolated, foggy bridge, his one year old son.

"No, no," the man stammers, shaking his head now, attempting unsuccessfully to remove himself from this horrid memory. The memory tightens its hold on the man's subconscious, forcing him to relive its morbid content.

The baby plays naively with a lamp by his light blue playpen. To the man's horror, he sees his wife enter the boy's room. "Let's move that lamp," she says in her gentle voice. She indicates with her soft finger the lamp on the baby's crib. This lamp was the father's when he was just a baby. The lamp is shaped in the form of Air Wave, the superhero who traveled by electric current. "It's fine," the father replies

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