In the Tears of My Saints

Chapter 12: No More Mistakes

Sunday: 6:02 p.m.

His Song comes to me for the very first time as she slams the car door and shoves the manila envelope violently into her purse. Even though she had insisted that she would “not require that sort of protection,” she takes the gun. She turns away now and stares at nothing in particular across the street. Her eyes are brimming with tears, and I wonder if there is anything left to say. I think not. How could I have imagined that this would play out differently? I am such a fool.

She knows this, too, and as her accusing eyes return to mine through the window, she spits out an agonized little screech, “How dare you?” Her voice breaks.

I don’t say anything—I don’t have anything to say. This question seems so cliché, yet somehow, perfectly fitting for the present circumstances. How dare I? There are a dozen reasons I could offer, but as I look into her betrayed eyes, I know that none of these hold any substance. I hurt her; this is all that matters. I hurt her and there is nothing I can do to make it better. I am helpless, and I must helplessly watch her suffer. But what hurts the most is the undeniable knowledge that I am the one who is responsible. Like every other person in her life, I have let her down. I am just another jerk, a painful memory; another regret.

With this knowledge, my throat begins to ache, and my eyes well-up with tears. I want to throw myself out of the car and onto my knees at her feet, but I know that this is hopeless, so I remain motionless. I could drag her back, force her to safety.

His Song rejects the idea—my lips stay silent and my face unmoving as the tears roll slowly down my cheeks. She will go—I know that she will. Despite the danger, she will leave me, and there is nothing I will do about it.

Her voice is a whisper when she speaks next, but the agony burns from her eyes.

“I trusted you. How could you do this to me? I trusted you, and you hurt me more than anyone else was able.”

I know.

She turns away from me. Her arms are folded tightly around her tiny chest, and the bitter wind whips through her tousled hair. She only takes a few steps, however, before she turns back quickly. Her face is contorted in grief, but this is rapidly being replaced with overwhelming rage.

“I hate you.” She spits the words. They are like a slap to my face, and once again I long to fling myself at her feet. But my body does not move.

I hate me, too.

Without another word, she is gone, and I am alone in my head.

Sunday: 7:28 p.m.    

I don’t know how long I drive, but when my mind finally returns from the tortures of my recent memories, His Song finds me at the sight of our second date.

The trees of The Park cast long shadows across the hood of my car, and the wind flowing through the cracked window feels nice on my burning skin. Unfortunately, it can do nothing for the throbbing in my chest. This aching twists my body in the seat, and I feel sick. The agony on her face won’t leave me. Our final scene together plays over and over in the front of my mind, but the cool wind does nothing about this either. It cannot take away the pain. It cannot change the past. I simply stare out the window of my car at nothing, praying for the searing pain to lessen.

As always, the ducks swim peacefully in the pond below me. They don’t appear to have a care in the world. Perhaps this is why I like them—I wish that life was as simple as they make it appear. I want to glide effortlessly across the water with them, to leave my pain here in Paul’s car and forget my regrets. I want to escape, but His Song holds me tight, and I cannot. I have no business in the water. My business is in life, in people.