There are a lot of reasons why you might find yourself on a bridge, ready to kill yourself. Some of them might even be good reasons. I was willing to bet someone in history had thrown themselves off a bridge because it was really the best choice. I wasn’t going to be one of them. This was just another cry for help.
“God is dead. And should we not follow his example?”
The entire time, that whole ten years I was journeying home, my wife was in my mind. There were other women, a fact of which I’m not proud, but whenever I considered giving up, whenever I considered accepting my fate, I thought of my Penelope, my Telemachus, my Argos. But history has never favored me. Most countries, most mythoses, have favored brawn over the mind. There is a reason it is the Illiad, after all, named after Achilles and his boundless valor. There is a reason that I was despised by the Romans, and by the Italians. I preferred craft and cunning.
I stood on the hill, watching as my people died. Chankpe Opi Wakpala continued to flow. The Ghost Dancers continued their shuffle in the name of a messiah who would never materialize.
“’ve gotta go,” mumbled Crupky, her face turned away, as she stepped back. “’ts good to see you again. Ariel. Achilles. Uh. Megan. Need to, uh. Gotta go make sure things are okay at the station.”
Every good story uses threes. The reasons for this are complicated, but mostly come down to what humans call prime numbers. Numbers that cannot be easily separated. Amounts which are difficult to split. From such unity comes strength, but also, great pride and a tendency towards self-reinforcing behavior. Three, Five, Seven, Eleven; Thirteen.
I watched, with a kind of growing horror and fascination, as Nancy continued speaking. The thief had the panicked look of an animal being tracked, hunted, cornered, her nails digging into the chair. Her eyes kept darting back to me.