The Bridge

by R J Dent

When the fear struck, Claire abruptly stopped, frozen to the spot, midway across the bridge.

          Oh no, not again, she thought, as she gasped and panted and closed her eyes involuntarily against the huge waves of panic that washed and broke over her, making her head spin, her body tremble and her skin break out in a simultaneously hot and cold sweat. Her heart was pounding like an industrial hammer, her hands were tingling with pins-and-needles and her throat was tightly constricted, making it difficult for her to breathe.

          With a supreme effort of will, she suppressed her fear and clung to her rationality, keeping a grip on her wits, forcing her eyes back open and carefully stepping back a few paces, away from the centre point of the bridge.

          And all the time she struggled to hold back an insistent urge to throw herself off the bridge and its whirling skyline and let herself plummet to the needle-sharp rocks below.

          Claire stepped backwards and almost immediately the panic attack started to abate. She realized how shallow her breaths had been and hurriedly took a few deep breaths and felt her hammering heartbeat start to slow to a normal pace. She tried to work some saliva into her dry mouth, but there was none available yet. There would be in a while, she knew.

          What was it? she wondered, her mind flitting over her last few actions in an attempt to work out what had caused the trauma – what sight, sound, smell, or combination of those sensory triggers had started the panic attack this time.

          The same as last time, Claire told herself matter-of-factly. And the time before. And the time before that. And the time before that. It was always the same cause. She knew that because the attack always happened in exactly the same place – always in the near-centre of the bridge. She just didn’t know why it happened there. Or why it happened at all, for that matter.