DEATH OF A MAYFLY - Chapter 11

Dec 01, 2025

Static came through the radio, the stations all blocked by the storm, and I turned up the noise as high as I could and flew down the hill toward the depot, slamming the brakes just before I hit the tracks. I squinted through the pouring rain, following the highway into town one dim streetlight at a time. Left at the football stadium, inching along in first gear, the unpaved roads looked more like rivers, torrents overwhelming the storm drains and seeping into driveways and up over the sidewalks. I turned right on Main Street and passed the pool, following the park around toward the river which had risen significantly, nearly cresting the banks where we had watched the fireworks just a few hours before. Now it raged and swirled, crashing violently against the pilings underneath the bridge, all the islands gone as it pulsed and heaved, swallowing everything in its path.

I pulled in front of the drugstore, steering wide around the deep puddles that stretched out from the old firehouse, flooding the entryways to the bathrooms and stirring a great brew of dead flies and cotton under the doorways. I opened the door and stepped out in my bare feet, feeling around for the pavement under the water, which was warmer than I expected and tugged at the bottom of my pajamas, making little eddies around my ankles and underneath the tires. Hitching up my pants, I pulled myself through the quickly-rising water as I crossed the street, climbing up and out onto the bridge. Behind me, Front Street looked almost unrecognizable, a parade of tree branches and celebratory trash, and I noticed some of the tiles were missing from the eaves along the storefronts.

I gingerly made my way out onto the middle of the bridge. All around me lay a mess of wet fireworks—empty shells, mortars, tubes, wilted boxes of soggy punks and matches—abandoned in the storm. I poked at the blackened mess with my toe and leaned out over the side to take a look. Below, the Missouri River slammed wildly against the bridge, pulling logs and debris under the angry, foaming water, the waves spraying up between the boards and over my feet. I shut my eyes and listened to the rhythm of the river. I, too, wanted to crush everything in my path, swallow it all up, wash it away, and leave nothing left.

June 23

When I shut my eyes I can leave forever. The bad parts are gone. He’s gone. The way I feel is gone. I can hear my own breath and I know it’s real.

It’s okay to be done, I thought, convincing myself as I inched my toes closer to the edge of the bridge. I’d tried to survive, make it work, be the woman everyone expected me to be, but the gas gauge was on empty. I had nothing left to hold onto or worry about, no responsibilities. Nothing to come home to. All I’d ever wanted was to start over and do things my way, instead of being brutally dictated by the men in my life. Never once did I have a say—not what I wore, my friends, my marriage, my safety, not the food I ate or where I rested my head at night. Because if I’d had a say I wouldn’t have picked a goddamn thing they’d chosen for me. I stared out over the water, feeling the pulse as it pushed against the pilings.

“I’m done!” I screamed, my words swallowed up by the storm. It felt great. Raindrops pelted against my face, through my hair and pajamas, and down my legs. I grabbed the railing and leaned far out over the river, screaming with everything I had left. “It’s my turn! Do you hear me? It’s my turn!“

June 24

I feel sleepy, the drink warm and strong in my throat. Who knew it could be so sweet and delicious, not angry and rageful through the floorboards. No one is angry here. The music never stops, and I’m not lonely anymore.

I gripped a steel truss and put one foot up on the barrier. My hands slipped against the wet metal, but I steadied myself and climbed up and out onto the railing, my toes hanging over the edge of the bridge. I wasn’t scared; I didn’t shake. I didn’t second-guess myself—I knew exactly what I was doing.

This was my decision.

I inched along the railing, pushing myself away from the truss until I could barely touch it with the tips of my fingers. For a moment I balanced there, the storm still beating against my body and threatening to throw me into the water. It felt powerful to know I was completely in control of what was about to happen. I bit down hard on my lip.

Okay.

June 25

Sometimes you just have to shut your eyes and jump.

And with a deep breath I tipped forward, falling like a stone down into the dark water. It pulled me under quicker than I’d expected, and I struggled, disoriented against the current, not sure which way was up. I hadn’t planned on surviving, but my instincts kicked in, trying to save my life. Reaching one arm up I slapped at the surface of the water, but before I could take a breath it pulled me down again, yanking me backward in its powerful undercurrent. I kicked my legs and flailed as the fast-moving water forced me out into the middle of the river, and for a second I bobbed up to the surface and could breathe. Tree branches and debris raced past me, cutting my arms and smacking into the sides of my face. I didn’t have enough energy left to scream, using whatever I had to tread the water. But I’d never have called for help; I wanted this.

Ellie's Coffee Fund

Something wrapped around my foot and I sank like a rock back into the darkness, tangled in the underwater reeds of one of the missing islands. I pulled at the long grass, winding tighter around my legs, struggling and splashing, willing myself to find the surface again. My lungs burned, and for a second I’d find a tiny sip of air, lurching forward and pushing my face out of the water, before being pulled back under. I did it again, just a mouthful. But tiny sips weren’t enough to last more than a second or two before the burning started again. How long could I do this?

I’d read somewhere that drowning is a peaceful way to die, slow suffocation as you drift off to sleep. Maybe I should stop fighting, let the river do whatever it wants. I kicked my legs one more time, taking one last sip of air before letting go. My body sank back into the warm water, deeper and deeper until all the sounds of the storm disappeared and everything became very quiet.

June 26

Free.

It wasn’t that bad, I thought, drifting downwards until my toes touched the bottom of the river. I imagined I was lying on a bed somewhere in a dark room and I didn’t need to breathe anymore, relaxing deeper into the silky silt and curling up for one last sleep. And like I had a hundred times before, with every blow to the head or when he choked me against the floorboards, I heard my mother’s voice cooing me from my nightmares. She sang the most beautiful lullaby, her voice so sweet and clear that even the current settled and I could see the moon through the top of the water. She was there with me at the bottom of the river, just like she’d always done, shooing the monsters away and holding a cold glass of water to my lips. I was so glad she’d come back.

“Where were you? I was afraid he hurt you.”

But she just shook her head, one finger to her lips, and I noticed they didn’t move but the song continued. When you wake you’ll have cake, and all the pretty little horses.

Common Carp - Nevada Department of Wildlife — ndow.org

Suddenly something tugged at me and I remembered the river. Maybe a carp had found me and was nibbling at my pajamas.

I’m still alive, fish. Don’t eat me yet.

But it tugged harder, pulling at my elbow and yanking me off the soft silt and back up into the current. My mother’s voice disappeared and the water turned violent again, shaking me as I inhaled the mud and slime. I couldn’t see anything anymore, just the blackness, floating out into space somewhere, waiting for whatever came next. And then I slept.

I’d had the measles once as a child, the sickest I’ve ever been. And with the high fevers came fever dreams, the kind that carry you on a fine glass path between the living and the dead, filled with nonsense and chaos. And as I lay there on the bottom of the river the dreams came back, strange high-pitched voices racing around me in circles, then crashing down low to a jumble of unintelligible conversation, faster and faster. They weren’t men’s voices, but deep, comical, then high again like a chorus of angry babies begging for milk. But somehow the babies cried in slow motion, wailing almost backwards, in and out, red, yellow, and black. The sounds had colors, and the colors had tastes. The tastes hurt behind my eyes, then deep in my chest, crushing me. I tried to breathe, but it didn’t matter. I could taste dirt. Then the colors again.

Something pushed my face and the dreams turned gray, vague. I tried to find the story, remember what I’d been thinking about, but that dream was gone. Now I floated in a purgatory of sleep, waiting for the next door to open. I could see my feet flat on the ground, bare and standing on nothing. But from somewhere I’d begun to bounce. Something beneath me pulsed in a slow gait like an invisible horse, then faster and more rhythmic, jolting me back and forth. Whatever it was that I couldn’t see hurried, fearful. It had sounds, but they, too, meant nothing. Were they words? Just breath? And I slept again, dreamless this time

I wanted to keep sleeping but the river slammed me down onto something hard and now my lungs needed air, burning and choking on the mud. Something pushed on me and it hurt, wringing out all the water and then vomit along with it, and rolling me onto my side.

“You’re okay,” a breathless voice said, “get it all out.” And I did for a very long time, retching on sand and water and trying to take slow painful breaths as the blackness began to fade. My fingers touched wet boards and I knew I’d been pulled from the river. The person leaned over me, coughing and clearing their throat, audibly spitting on the floor somewhere behind my head. I tried to sit up and open my eyes; I needed to leave.

“Whoa - whoa,” the voice said. “Slow down, take it easy.” He—it was a he—had an accent, and in the haziness I wondered how far down the river I’d floated.

“I have to go home,” I tried to say, but all that came out was “No.” And from somewhere in the dark I saw him reach out a hand to help. “No - NO.”

“Okay - okay. Hold on, it’s okay. I won’t touch.” He was sitting on the floor and I watched him scoot back a few feet toward one of the booths.

Booths?

I tried to sit up again, pushing myself onto my knees, but a sudden case of the spins sent me forward back down to my arms, gagging up what was left of the river. Heavy footsteps confused me and only added to the pounding in my head, but a few seconds later there was a pile of clean-smelling towels next to me and I sank gently back down to the floor. I still couldn’t see him well, but I could see the plastic cup of water, the straw.

“I can help if you want, or I can stay over here.” Cautious. The accent. I didn’t respond, fumbling for the water, and I don’t know if I ever drank it before falling back to sleep.

The Wake Cup - Fort Benton, MT - Amanda Bedford

Whoever he was, he waited. And the next time I woke I could see better, and see the mess around me. He hadn’t cleaned me up, hadn’t touched me, just like he promised. I saw him across the floor, sleeping against the booth, and I knew where we were. He’d brought me to the Culbertson House, the old saloon, our local coffee shop.

I tried yet again to sit up, inching along the floor in hopes that he wouldn’t wake. But his eyes popped open and for a second I wanted to run. Something like this had happened to me once before. Alone in a familiar place.

“Don’t touch me.” My voice shook.

“No - no, of course not.” He held up one hand in front of him, not moving from the floor. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” Then he waited. We stared each other down. He had no shoes, and his jeans were damp and muddy. His hair looked wild and unkempt, curls in every direction and out overtop big ears that stuck out the sides of his face. His mouth was too wide, his eyebrows thick and hanging low over his eyes. But I couldn’t make out his face in the dark. It scared me. Men often started out kind.

“You can go home. I just - are you okay?” He leaned forward and I instinctively kicked the floor, scooting backward. “Oh, okay. No, I didn’t mean anything. You can stay there, I won’t move.” Then he waited again, eyes everywhere but at me. Sometimes he twiddled his thumbs, sometimes picked at a hole in his jeans, but he never moved an inch.

After a few minutes he cleared his throat, looking sheepish.

“Do you mind if I go to the bathroom?” I didn’t say anything. “Okay, thanks.” He came out a few minutes later, cleaner, and carrying a stack of white coats. “I found these back in the kitchen. I don’t know if you want to change into something dryer, but it might be better for the walk home.” He held out a coat like he was trying to attract a frightened animal.

Me.

When I again didn’t respond, he nodded and lay the coat down on one of the tables. “I’m going to grab something to eat. I’m starving.” And in two steps he flipped on the lights above the register and had an ice cream scoop in his hand.

I watched him flit about behind the counter, bending low over the glowing ice cream case and testing every flavor with one of those tiny plastic spoons. Some he tried twice, one three times, then decided on his favorite and scooped two large scoops into a glass bowl. Then he walked the long way around the counter and sat down across from me, careful to keep his distance, and scooted the bowl across the floor.

“Here.” I looked at him, confused. I could see his face now and how young he was, not more than 20, 21. He had freckles, but his skin was dark and sort of stretched like he spent most of his time outside.

“Thank you,” I whispered, pulling the bowl towards me.

“You’re welcome. You eat that. I’ll get some more.” And he left to dish himself up another two scoops and came back to sit on the floor. “Mm, lemon custard is my favorite.” He’d gotten me chocolate chip mint. My favorite. And we ate in silence, scraping against the bottom of the glass bowls with our spoons. I dreaded setting it back down on the floor, but he didn’t wait long.

“So...what were you doing out there?” I prickled. “I know, I know, it’s not my business. Sorry.” He pulled at an earlobe, awkwardly toeing the ice cream dish. I didn’t want to say anything, but years of social situations with my father forced me to give an answer.

“I was going for a walk.”

“At 3:30 in the morning?”

“Yeah. I’m a night owl. Couldn’t sleep.”

“A night owl,” he repeated. He wasn’t stupid. “Okay, I understand.” He pulled his knees up to his chest like a child. “But you were in the water.”

“Look, I don’t know you.”

“Sure - sure,” he said quickly. “I mean, I have time if you want to talk about it. I didn’t really expect to be here tonight, but I am, so...” I don’t know why, but that almost made me smile, and I caught myself before he saw.

“Me either. Where are your shoes?”

“Hmm? Oh, they’re probably on the bank somewhere. I kicked them off pretty fast when I saw you ju- um, fall.” He wiggled his toes, and from behind his knees I saw the blush rise in his cheeks.

Another pause. “You must think I’m selfish.”

He shook his head. “No - no, I don’t think you’re selfish. I know things happen. I just didn’t want you to drown, that’s all.”

I inhaled a stiff breath of air; my lungs still hurt. “I need to get back to my truck.” Everything ached, and my knees wouldn’t bend. He again offered his hand. I reached for it this time.

“I’ll walk you back. Do you want to dry off a little though? I mean, the coats aren’t great but they’re at least better than...” He eyed my pajamas. I looked down and saw the mud and bits of squashed cotton and flies pressed into the flannel.

“Oh. Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” I looked around. “Isn’t this like breaking and entering or something?”

“Probably. Don’t worry, I’ll leave a good tip. Go on, the bathroom’s back there.”

I started to walk away, then turned to look at him, making sure he stayed next to the register.

“I’m not moving, don’t worry.”

Descubre 20 ideas de the devil all the time y tom holland | super héroe, tom holland imagina, actores y más — Tom Holland - The Devil All the Time

I found the bathroom and, thankfully, a rack of dry, clean rags underneath the changing table. My hair was still filled with mud and little sticks from the river, and I patted myself down, leaning over the sink to get a good look at the mess.

My breath caught and I covered my mouth to stifle a scream. I squeezed my eyes shut then opened them, leaning back into the mirror. I couldn’t see myself. I mean, I could, but my face wasn’t my face—not my cheeks, my eyebrows, my forehead. My hair, usually salt-and-pepper, looked sort of auburn and smooth, even with all the mud. My neck didn’t sag, but was soft and willowy. My hands, my fingernails, porcelain.

Telluride: Mia Wasikowska Tackles France's Most Famous Fictional Heroine — Mia Wasikowska - Madame Bovary

“Are you okay?” came a muffled voice through the door.

“Uh, I’m fine.” I tried to sound normal. I wasn’t fine. I’d gone crazy, or maybe I’d died. Was this coffee shop bathroom heaven? What an odd place to spend eternity.

Because it wasn’t me in the mirror, at least it hadn’t been in a very long time. Staring back at me was the girl I’d been ten years ago, naïve and untouched. I unbuttoned my pajama shirt and looked down. All the scars he’d cut into me from a decade of torture had disappeared in an instant. My skin didn’t sag anymore, but looked fresh and pink, tight, everything where it should be. I slid on the oversized chef’s jacket and tossed the rags into the sink.

When I opened the door he was back by the counter, dressed in his white jacket.

“Better?”

“I think so,” I stammered, still in shock. He gave me a funny look but leaned over and turned off the lights. Something inside me jumped, old nerves again, and he took a step back.

“It’s okay. You go ahead, I’ll lock up.”

Outside, the sidewalk and the street were completely dry, as if nothing had ever happened. We walked at a distance, me in front, him a few steps behind. I soon realized this, too, made me uncomfortable because I couldn’t see him or gauge what he wanted. So I slowed down a little and walked beside him, an awkward space between us. But the confusion of the bathroom weighed heavier than the discomfort I had with him, and I began to ask him questions.