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The river runs deep, but the blood runs deeper. It lies at the bottom of the ice cold lake, his eyes still staring; his mouth shapes an eternal scream. He still haunts me; I toss and turn in my bed at night. I can't sleep thinking of what I've done, but sleep is no escape. I wake up in a sweat after dreaming of that day. That day I stood and watched, watched a man's life slip away, into the clutches of the river. In my dreams I see him fall screaming, crying, flailing in the water. Then sinking like a stone into the depths of the river. And still I stand watching, then when the last ripples fade away I turn and walk home without a sound and yet a man is lying at the bottom of the river, never to walk again.
When he was living he walked with an ugly limp that fascinated and horrified me. I watched him, as he crossed the bridge with me every day, shuffling along with his stick. Had I known then what I would do I would never had gone back to that bridge again. I would've taken the long cut. It would have meant a wasted five minutes, every day. But better that than a wasted life. He dropped his stick that day. I didn't see why. All I saw was the stick fall into the grass by the bank of the river, saw him climb down after it, watched how he suffered with each step he took. I made no movement or a sound. Just watched, distant. It was almost as if I was never there at all. But I was there and that is why each footstep I take I see his face, hear his scream. He bent down reaching out for the stick, the worthless stick, the stick that killed him. Or was that me? Watching, doing nothing, watching a man die. His good leg held him up, the other lying lifeless on the floor. His hand reached out and he overbalanced, toppling forward, losing grip. And the leg stayed lifeless made no attempt to move and save the life it belonged to. But what could it do. It was a dead leg. But what could I do? I, too, felt dead, a worthless thing, something that is dragged along the floor, a burden to its carrier. That's all I felt. Dead. But soon it would be him who was dead. All hope was gone; his silent terror spoke a thousand words. But all the words were whispers in that desolate place. No one could hear him, no one could save him. No one could save me. As I watched the last breath escape his body, his struggles stop, part of me died too. My soul drifted down to join his body, leaving me an empty shell. There's no chance for me to go to heaven. Not now, not now; my soul lies down in the dark along with the secrets no one should know.
But when he died, he did not leave, he haunts me by night and day. His soul torments my broken heart. And he left behind him a family, a wife and daughters who love him still. Who still cling on to the hope he will walk through the door. And it kills me to see them hoping when all hope is surely lost. For he lies dead in the water, hidden from human eyes. The police are there almost every day, but why would they suspect the river? Why would he go there? He couldn't swim. He was no fool. But one day they will discover the route he took almost every day, and then they will dredge the river and find him there even though he is long gone. But why suspect me? No one knows I was there on that day. They will say it was an accident, it couldn't be helped. But how little they know. When that day comes, I will break my silence, tell of what I saw that day. Then they can move him and put his soul deep in the ground so he can be at peace.
But what of me? I cannot be put in the ground, no final resting place for me. He may be dead but he still has family, someone still loves him. No one loves me and they never will, after they know what I've done. My life was taken from me that day. A life for a life. Perhaps that's the answer; perhaps I should join that man at the bottom of the endless river of lies.
The river runs deep, but the blood runs deeper.