Writing Collections

Three Things

There are three things, three things he cannot tell her. If he were to speak those words aloud and she to hear, there'd be nothing left of either of their souls. An empty space full of dust would be all she'd leave in her wake and he would be nothing more than a shadow, a void without boundaries.

It wasn't fair; he had no idea, no inclination as to who the person was. Yet, he didn't hesitate, didn't falter or flinch as the bullet spiraled through the barrel. As it tore through the flesh of a man who was the very reason he was able to meet her at all. It wasn't fair, but it was his own fault. By his own hand, he called upon this demon, this hellhound, to enslave him with as simple a tool as a muzzle. He cannot converse with her; he cannot even see her. But, oh does he find a way, every time.

She sits there now, reading a book, so blatantly unaware of the past watching her from across the way. She looks to be at peace, like she's moved on. No doubt she has moved on. It's been two years since he left her in the bone-breaking rain, left her alone while the droplets camouflaged the tears staining her cheeks. He gave her no explanation, just a simple goodbye intricately laced with the last shards of his crumbling heart. Her contorted face haunts his mind when he sleeps. The ghost of her touch caresses his skin when he smells the sweet perfume of roses. God, he misses her, all of her. Every single inch. . . he can no longer hold, kiss. She is gone, but she is here.

She looks up as an old couple with an orange Pomeranian saunter by her table. Her gentle smile makes his chest constrict until he swears he can feel the bone snap. Her eyes, so bright and beautiful, hold an amazing amount of tragedy within their fathomless depths.

He can never tell her. He can never tell her that he is responsible for her pain, for the white flowers on polished wood, for another hole carved into the memory of a family. A family he never got the chance, and never will get the chance, to meet. Was the man innocent? He didn't know, doesn't know, but it's not like he can undo his actions and breathe life back into those lungs. How he wishes he could do the same for his own.

She glances away as they round the corner, hand in hand. She licks her lips and his throat tightens. She turns the page.

An easy breeze plays with her hair, adding a tint of gold to the dancing locks. The afternoon sun paints a faint yellow shade on her flawless skin, highlighting the small bumps of her wrist bones, twirling around the arch of her bare ankles. Her nose lights up in a pale streak, pointing his gaze down to the ivory accented curve of her neck, her chest. His entire body shakes with yearning, with remembrance, with agony. Her colored lips quirk at one corner in that pleasant grin his mind will not allow him to forget.

He can never tell her he loves her. No; he knows she would not have it, would not reciprocate it, for it is too late. There is no rekindling the magic the once shared, made. It is too far gone for even a bird to travel the fastest winds to find. He is forced to undergo the constant turmoil of acknowledging that there is simply nothing he can do to alter any of this. She is better off thinking of him as some lowly Lothario than a corrupted man who finally found what he never knew he wanted with her.

She sighs, the sun flickering along her lines as she closes her book and stands. She tucks the novel close to her bosom and walks away. She does not turn back, she does not know she is being followed.

He keeps his distance. He is good at keeping his distance. She is oblivious to his presence shadowing her like the phantom of a lost dog. She buys lunch, she eats half her sandwich, she throws the rest away. She takes a stroll through the park, watches a young family enjoy their picnic. She opens her book and she reads. She is almost finished with it.

The moon slips from the horizon and he is still watching after her. He trails her past a bustling café overflowing will people of various ages and occupations. He pays them no mind, for his is trapped by the radiance of a past secret. He stands in a dark alley, gray hood obscuring his features from passersby. He longingly stares as her slender form enters the building. She checks in, she holds the book close, she presses a button and enters the elevator. He stares at the dark window, his pulse fluttering as the drapes erupt in a dingy saffron. Her shadow sits at her desk and she opens the book.

He stays there, motionless for nearly half an hour, while she reaches the last pages. His breath is rugged as she stands, a tidal wave of emotions crashing into him. She crosses the room and he can no longer see her. His head bows and a gunshot echoes from the fourth floor.

He can never tell her he's sorry.