In The End

Jamie Trost  

Academy Senior

In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. In the end, she couldn’t feel guilty, couldn’t feel the pain of what had happened, couldn’t bring herself to the reality that-yes, in fact- by helping them she had hurt herself. In the end, she realized that what had happened had happened not only because she had subconsciously wanted it to happen, but because, within the dark, deep, hidden crevasses of her mind, she had needed it to happen. She stopped focusing on the pain within herself, and focused on the feeling that her actions had emanated towards other people. ‘I can feel happy,’ she convinced herself, “because I am happy.”

But in the end, she felt only nothing.

When it had happened, she was confused. Was he really asking her to do this? Had he really wanted her to prove her loyalty this much, this COMPLETELY, that he was pleading her to act against any reasoning, any sound theories she might have held, in order to make him happy? Was it even happiness he sought, or was it merely the satisfaction of her unstoppable loyalty? She had loved him, then; and in loving him, she had transferred the love. For love is a substance that, while fragile and pure, cannot expand, cannot merely be created and distributed; but rather, love must be taken from within oneself and handed to others. Once gone, love is irreplaceable, only able to be filled with love received and love returned, but never recreated. Yes, she had transferred the love, once held so tightly to her own bosom, to him. And, in asking her that which he had so boldly asked, he stole from her whatever love remained clasped to her soul.

She wanted to do it. Looking back, she pondered that, given less time for consideration, allowed fewer minutes alone with her thoughts, she would have done it; but, alas, it was then he walked away. He left, leaving with her a choice that, slowly, ultimately, and wholly, began to consume her. She realized that in complying with his wishes, she would be granted happiness. Happiness, perhaps, that would not measure to that happiness whose amount was sought, maybe; but still, she desired more to be partially happy than to meet the possibility of never visualizing the quantity of bliss she dreamed.

That day, she took a right, instead of following him left. She watched the warehouse disappear into the distance as she took her turn of walking away; however, she refused to see it as such. Instead of leaving, she imagined her purpose, sought to envision it in the sense that she was REFUSING to leave him, refusing to allow him the satisfaction of the poison that would destroy him. She walked with purpose, refusing to let the objective steal away from her mind’s eye. She had so little faith in her strength that she clenched her fists, frightened that if she allowed herself little more than a moment of doubt, she would turn around, face the warehouse, and give in.

It took so little time. When she reached the building, she climbed the stone steps. After the last night’s rain, she felt it. On the walk, she had felt the moisture in the air clinging to her clothes, weighing her down and pulling her back, slowing her down as much as it could; even now, as she trudged resolutely up the steps, she felt the cold of the stone seep through her shoes and soak her soul. She shivered as she grasped the door handle, pulled the doors open, stepped inside, and sought out the lieutenant.

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When he was released three years later, almost to the day, he sought her out. She knew he would, and yet she misunderstood the reason he sought her. The fear she held in her heart- the same fear that had refused to allow her to visit him in his drug-affiliated incarceration- left paranoia in its wake, and so when she heard of his parole, due to good behavior, she pondered frantically. She found nowhere to hide physically, and so she attempted to recede so far into herself as to deny him entry.

But still he came.

He came around lunchtime, and the knock at the door was as soft as the footsteps of a curious child on Christmas morning. Still, though unheard, she opened the door. She had felt him there, and at that moment, she felt herself burst through the wall she had mentally created. Who was she kidding? She could not hide from him! How could she hide her heart, when it was he who owned the most of it?

She felt her very being stutter as she looked at the man on the mantle of her door. The man, now clean-shaven, who held but the vaguest physical resemblance to the person he once was. His eyes, the only part of him still recognizable, she sought and held, clinging to the truth of having him back. She waited for the pain, waited for the anger to strike out at her, and she closed her eyes.

The whisper on the wind, even softer than the door, sighed at her. “Thank you,” it said. “Thank you,” he whispered as his arms encapsulated her trembling body. All at once the sobs shook loose from their bodies, a mixture of hers and his, sorrow and happiness, relief.

They entered the house, sitting at the kitchen counter with their coffees, both black, as they had ten times before. The cups steadily grew cold, both refusing to drink- for to drink would be to admit to the old times, the old ways and customs. And yet they both knew that never again would they drink the coffee. Never again would they argue about the drugs. Never again would he ask her to relinquish her soul to his.

New times. New beings. New souls. New love. She reached across the table and took his hand, already feeling the tender reach of his spirit begin to patch her wounded heart.

“Let me make us some tea,” she said.