What would happen at that moment?
Would my body shriek with the shock of the slam, while all the atoms inside exploded into Big Bang-like crazed activity, unsure of the occasion but jolted regardless? Perhaps they’d be bright with colour and twinkling like glow-worms; they might dart here and there fast and determined. They might tear through the night like sparklers held by dumb and gleeful children on November 5th. Shifting as energy must, they’d reassemble to resemble a 90s rave in south-east London, strobe lights pulsing on sweating faces with white round eyes and black holes shot through them. In the black, solid heat, the bass would tremble, the hundreds of fists would pound the air to its rhythm and the neon sticks would draw shapes that would float, stunned, then revert to nothing.
Or would I form a lesson in Biology in which my skin would disintegrate, soluble, and school pupils would peek through their fingers in satisfied disgust at the gruesome display of thumping purple heart and twisted slime of intestine?
Or perhaps God would pick me up by my legs and shake me like a rattle, to alleviate His boredom for a while.
Most likely, though, it’d be glass shattering furiously inside the walls of my body. The shards would hit the skin, craving to pierce and angry at their inability to penetrate. They’d keep flying its way like a doomed army. And who would command them in their pointless pursuit? A General, helmet on and at the nucleus would point straight at the raw flesh and shout, ‘SHOOT! DO IT! YOU’RE NOTHING BUT SCUM!’ He himself would not shoot because then who would give the orders? The battalions would forge and fail, row upon row of flailing arrows. Some would stick in partly and leave me with braille for skin.
Afterwards, the water would moan its sorrow. It would hold me together, cradling me hard. It would try to push me up, back to the bridge, yearning to reverse Time, as it always would. How deep runs the hurt of the Thames, forced to bear life ending? Suspended at the surface of the water, I’d sigh and feel the air leave me empty. Sensing my warmth become a part of it, the river would know I was going. Parting my lips it’d rush into my mouth, filling my lungs and beginning my journey. Not letting me go just yet.
My mind would have moments left. In those moments, I would hear my Grandma call for me, ‘Sarah Sorrow!’ I would tell her that I was coming and that we would be together again soon. I would comb Nanna’s hair. I would tickle her chin with a feather and she would giggle.
The future, then, would be certain. And all would be well.