Killer of Dreams

I swung out of the parking lot into the Harbor Side Drive, glancing ar my rear-view mirror, taking a second look to check if any black and white was on my tail. My decision was not an easy one, but I needed Patrick to put a finger on Coach Peterson. My immediate concern was to find Patrick before the police did. I made my reconnaissance along the main drag several times, but no luck. The sky had darkened and the fog had intensified. I began to worry about Patrick. I had to find him tonight, tomorrow might be too late for the both of us. His safety and my career were on the line. I made my way to the busy intersection of Seawall Blvd where the students hung out on the weekends. I checked a few of the hamburger joints, not a trace of Patrick. Where the hell could he have disappeared? There's no point of going to his house, he wouldn't be there. The police would check there first. The only place I hadn't checked was the Bolivar Bridge. As I made my illegal turn, I bounced on the island and I stepped on the accelerator, dodging cars avoiding collision. Bolivar Bridge had a long story of suicide fatalities. During the last two years, the suicide rate among teenagers had risen one hundred percent. Experts theorize that the increase of drug abuse had a lot to do with the phenomenon. I had visited the bridge a few times, and the view was spectacular. The feeling that I got when I was standing on top of the bridge was sensational. The beautiful rainbows that were created by sunlight and the mist; the tumbling rush of the waves on the rocks, echoing in the large pylons of the bridge; the scenic beauty left me breathless. The waves were like Sirens that lured the teenagers to their destruction . There was a small monument in the memory of the first teenager who had leaped to his death. The young man was from somewhere from the Midwest.