He awakens with a start. First, confusion. Then, terror.
He looks down. Beneath his feet is a bridge. Under the bridge runs a swift current of dark water. His feet are planted dangerously close to the edge. He looks up. A metal beam runs over the bridge, parallel to another like it on the opposite side. This is a railroad bridge.
Where is he? What is this place? How did he get here? Questions buzz around in his head like a confused swarm of bees. There are no answers.
In his panic he failed to notice a rope encircling his neck. It’s rather tight, and that scares him. He goes to loosen it with his hands but they do not move. They are trapped behind his back, bound with a cord similar to the one around his neck.
After a few more moments of inescapable fright, he begins to gather himself. He needs to escape this seemingly hopeless situation. The rope around his neck is connected to the beam above his head. It’s like a noose. If he were to jump from the bridge, he would evidently hang himself.
He observes how the rope is tied to the steel beam. Perhaps it could come loose with enough careful tugging. He shuffles his feet to the left until the length of rope is stretched out between himself and the knot. A slight tug. The rope goes taut, but does not budge from the beam. A more efforted -though careful as to avoid injuring his neck- follows but the rope does not move. He continues like this, making various efforts to tug on the rope, but soon runs out of hope. The rope is too tight.
He returns to his original spot in despair. Back to square one. He glances around for more options.
Perhaps he could untie the rope from his neck, he thinks.  He needs to unbind his hands first. He wriggles them around, hoping to loosen the rope that ties them. It’s not working, the rope is too tight. An attempt to slide out a hand is unsuccessful as well. Whoever tied his hands hand no intention of him escaping his bonds.
He looks for more options, but there are none that seem possible. He is running out of hope, and even his desire to escape. He should just stay here and wait for whatever’s coming.
What is it that’s coming, exactly? He still doesn’t know why or how he wound up here. He retreats within himself as he struggles to remember. He doesn’t know what it is he wants to remember, but anything will do.
He left his apartment and set out for work. That explains the dress shirt and pants he is still wearing. Walking to work as he usually does, but he doesn’t see himself ever making it to his destination. Some time between leaving his apartment and going to work he must’ve blacked out.
He had blacked out and somehow ended up tied to a bridge. But why? Surely there must be someone who disliked him enough to want him to suffer in such a position.
Wait. That sound. What is that sound? A train? A distant gurgling and sputtering. These are sounds more characterized by an automobile, not a locomotive. Someone is driving to the railroad bridge. He hopes they will be willing to help.
He turns as the sound draws near. A jet-black 1965 Ford Mustang. A classic car. He wonders how somebody got their hands on such an antique.
The Mustang parks beside the railroad track. Four men exit. They all are wearing black suits except for one. A beefy-looking man with a cigar in one hand wears a white suit. The sight of these men makes him feel queasy. Something tells him they are not here to help.
The group walks out onto the bridge and approaches him. He gets nervous. The one in white comes the closest while the others stay back.
  The beefy man speaks. He has an accent, though it can’t be placed. It’s foreign, but sounds all too familiar.
“Hello, old friend. It’s good to see you again.”
His breath reeks of cigar smoke and, what is that, cheese?
“Please, I don’t know who you are. Why am I here? What do you want?”
A chuckle emits from the one in white. It is a throaty chuckle, followed by a hacking cough. His smile fades as he takes a drag from his cigar.
“Listen, buddy, don’t play games with me. You know who I am and you know what you did. All I want is for you to one up to it, that’s all.” Smoke puffs from his mouth as he speaks. “Just say it. Say that you know what you did, and you’re sorry.” White suit tries his best at what looks to be an attempt at a cordial smile.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, can you just let me down from here and we can figure this out?”
White suit frowns. He did not like that answer. He turns to the trio of black suits standing aside.
“Hear that, fellas? He needs some help getting down.” A smile creeps across his pudgy face.
A wave of relief. They were going to untie him, and them he could figure out what was going on, and what these men think he supposedly did. Or so he thought.
One hard shove from behind, and his feet suddenly leave the bridge. Alarm and horror take ahold of him, but it’s too late to be afraid. It barely took a second. A moment of free fall, then the rope goes taut.
It was several days before someone saw the body. No one ever goes by that area, aside from the train. It’s passengers were oblivious to what was below, where the man hung like a discarded puppet from beneath the bridge.