...Now Phillípe ran ahead on adrenaline alone with the reality of space and time seeming to slow down; the faster he ran, the more distorted and wild his surroundings became. His addled mind played tricks on him, thoughts plagued his mind, my salvation will be the steel and wood construction of the bridge; it must be there only a few more yards away.
Then for a second, he heard them; then in the sky above his head, charging hard up the river valley, he saw them and froze for a moment. The helmeted spiritual Knights of the Pârfait family drew their swords in anger and poised them above their heads while heading toward him.
They were bearing down on the Summer Bridge fast and hard. As if he did not have enough trouble with the nasty brambles, it appeared, from their fearsome attitudes,they would run him down and through. Once again, as he did so many times before he raised a bloody arm and swore and cursed them off like a horde of buzzing bees.
Thus, as he stood to face his spiritual foes, Phillípe went off the path and only entangled himself even more in the ever-growing thicket of brambles and thorn bushes. Phillípe’s energy from his young years of felling oaks in the Canadian forests drove his bloody legs and body onward, disregarding pain like like a minor itch.
Consciously he knew about the angled bend at the bridge steps, which required him to shift direction in his path of travel, just as he approached the bridgel. Considering that he had to line up with the bridge correctly after he made his way down the hill, he quickly wondered, will I be able to make the turn with all these brambles on my legs and shoes.
With thorns covering his legs up to his swim trunks, the diminishing width of his path and his increasing pains from the thorns, how much more can he stand. Regardless, he drove himself onward without letup. For an instant the nagging torture of the brambles was quickly forgotten in the rush to escape, by means of the adrenaline coursing through his body. Then he saw a recalled crucified image of his niece floating in the air ahead; she appeared to be even more bloody than his first vision of her Spiritual Stigmata.
Besides, speaking of good judgment, Phillípe Pârfait was alway found himself in a short suite when under pressure. In his confused and tormented state of mind with all his forward momentum, it was getting more difficult to judge where to step and then prepare to make the turn ahead in order to be stable on the concrete and steel footings of Summer Bridge.
His charging ahead in life usually got him what he wanted without paying too much penalty, but, in this case, his attitude was working against him. Phillípe’s pains, momentum and crazy zigzag movements through the brambles left him with little control. Neither did he see the sign at the side of the path at the beginning of the downhill path or the small sign just before the bridge steps reading: CAUTION STEEP HILL DO NOT RUN.
When he arrived at the end of the path, which led to stone stairs at the foot of Summer Bridge and the safety of its railings, he was moving at a fast clip. The river was running raging-wild that afternoon and kicked up clouds of mist, which made the ground, weeds and stone abutment steps wet. Phillípe thought, at this speed, if I try to stop, I might fall over and slide on my belly through those weeds; I'd not be able to get up, much less make the turn.
With his ever-increasing speed, he lost directional control of his legs just short of the stone steps and the safety of the bridge railings. As correctly surmised, in all of Phillípe's crazily driven madness, he missed the turn to the bridge’s stone stairway, tripped on a vine, lost his balance.
Without a guardrail or fence at the very bottom of the hill to stop him, Phillípe’s momentum threw him over the edge and he fell one-hundred feet down on to the rocks and water of the Eel River below. If anyone were near enough to hear him scream, as he fell over the cliff, his wife’s name “Monica,” it would be recognized as his last will and testament..."
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