Story for performance #689
webcast from New York City at 08:01PM, 10 May 07

A woman jumped off that bridge today. When they pulled her out of the river her hands were swollen and bruised, and her skin had turned a milky white. Her eyes had rolled back in her head like marbles and her coat was hanging off one arm. The rest of her clothes had been twisted round. They’d lost their shape and they weren’t doing her any favours.

She jumped off the bridge because she was on the run from the Mafia. Three burly men with bushy moustaches had chased her through the city, puffing and sweating through their itchy suits, swinging hairy fists and reaching for their guns. She was a glamorous gangster’s moll, living the high life, turning a blind eye. Until the champagne soured on her lips and the palaces and mansions lost their shine. So she took the money and ran—in red Jimmy Choos and a classic Prada evening dress. (If only her life so far had encouraged her to be practical.) Blind with panic, she saw them coming and took the only way out.

No. She dived off the bridge because she was addicted to risk. Bungee jumps, parachuting, white water rafting—you name it, she’d done it all. She spent two years and all the credit she could raise travelling round the world in search of something Bigger, Higher, More Exciting. She didn’t want to swim with dolphins—she swam with sharks, shivering with the thrill of it, and the thrill of telling people about it afterwards. Today the water had been winking at her, glistening cobalt blue and silver. If she stood on the railing she could see almost her whole reflection, ankle to forehead, in the shimmering surface: the water was always on the move, just like her. Before she jumped she recited her good luck charm. ‘If I don’t survive’, she whispered to the wind, ‘then this is how I want to die.’

Actually, she was just making things even. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. She hadn’t meant to kill him, so she sacrificed herself in penance. She hoped to be swallowed by the water, engulfed and absolved at the same time. Everything smelt of death now—of blood and tyres and petrol and tears. And Chablis. She couldn’t walk down a street or go past a school without feeling the warm mushiness of a young boy’s broken skull. And she couldn’t do anything without feeling the scars, the two blood red sores his mother had pierced into her head, from all that looking. After she jumped it would all be over, and she would be clean again.

She jumped off the bridge because her heart was broken. It’s the oldest story in the world, the one everyone thinks they’ve lived. She always said she’d kill herself if he left her but he didn’t believe it. Well this will teach him, won’t it? Now he can have a turn at feeling sick every day, of being dragged down by a weight in the pit of his stomach, until each step feels like walking through glue. She hadn’t asked for much—just to be loved. In return she would cook for him, clean for him, look after him. Isn’t that what he’d promised, all those years ago? On the happiest day of her life, when she cried when he said his vows and something deep inside her breathed a sigh of relief. Well this is what you get for destroying a person—blood on your hands. This would be an act of revenge.

She leapt off the bridge out of superstition. They had all done it—her mother, her grandmother, her great-aunt. They had all died at 49. Well, she’d lived a good, full life, and this was where it ended. If she turned 49 tomorrow she’d be condemning herself to a debilitating illness—breast cancer like her mother, a stroke like her aunt. Anyway, she had no idea what being older than 49 could be like. That only happened to other people. She’d done everything she wanted -travelled, had a good career, flown in a helicopter above the city. And this was the way to live—to pre-empt death, prepare for it, not to let it strangle you from behind. Of all the methods, her research had led her to think of drowning as the best. The lack of oxygen in the water is meant to get you high (once you get over the not-breathing). She flicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes in the sun for one last time.

No. There was no reason for jumping off the bridge. No one reason anyway. It’s just that she had never had a starring role in her own life, and things had been going grey for a while. It wasn’t dramatic, just a gradual, seeping greyness, like a dirty sponge.

She didn’t leave a note. She won’t be missed and there will be no-one at the funeral. Her final act was an anonymous gift to all the other anonymous people who live here. She’s become an anecdote. When her would-be rescuer heaved her up he did it legs first—fleshy white skin against high-visibility waistcoat. He retched and then took a picture on his camera phone.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Mary Paterson.