I knew the story of the quote, "they belong to The Bridge," before I stepped onto its slippery *****. Onlt the brave people spoke of it, and even they said it's name as if it were a curse. The Bridge was there for as long as people could remember, some remember it more than others. I stepped onto The Bridge to endure its wrath. I couldn't see because it was dark around me, the towns folk who weren't scared to go into details whispered stories of how the outside vision is a representation of the inside quietus. The Bridge was a short cut over the vast oceans. I began to slowly move forward. Because slow is the only way to move on The Bridge. I'd heard shuddering stories of The Bridge and how it'd torn families apart and yet it didn't stop me from reaching the path. As I moved on I remembered all the stories of the people who weren't brave enough to finish walking The Bridge and jumped off the sides into the raging waters, some found their way back while others weren't capable. And as I take my final footfall before I step off of The Bridge I can't stop myself from thinking, am I being brave or scared?