Random One Shots

Hypocrites

A story (with a moral each must discover on their own)

A year from now, he will understand that the monochrome lenses of lost human beings are but a vapor in comparison to the mercy of the colors that bleed from Heaven. He will know- with all the brightness of stars, and all the warmth of sunlight- that he truly belongs. He will begin to believe in a Love so radical that no soul is unreachable and no journey too taxing.

The two of us, and others, will stand inside a chapel built of sweet-smelling cedar, and sing together once again- only this time, about this beautiful Love. And he will look back on all the wounds of yesterday and smile. The mistake we made will be a living, breathing miracle. Our past will shine the way to our future.

But today, he can't see anything beyond the dregs of humanity.

On my birthday, Philip Baroni tells me that he hopes I know I am the most fabulous seventeen-year-old lady in Seattle- and on the planet, too. As soon as the words are out, the heat rises in my cheeks much too quickly. So I crack my knuckles and clear my throat. I tell him I believe he is pretty fabulous as well.

He laughs at that. I love the sound of his laugh- like a book with tattered pages, that you read over and over, because it never gets old. It can never cease to make light ripple across my face. Even though it's nothing but a scratch- the harsh, wheezing rasp of a throat scorched by thousands of cigarettes- today, I decide something. I decide that it is my favorite sound in the whole world.

Because it's the sound of empathy.

When Philip asks me if I am hungry, I have to squeeze shut my eyes so I don't roll them at him. I don't know whether or not it was a lame attempt at humor; or just a forced, fragile breath of concern. Either way, he knows better.

When he stares at me, unblinking with his glowing green cat eyes, I don't say anything at all- just shake my head and purse my lips. My gaze lingers on the garbage at our feet- a carpet of litter- squashed aluminum cans and bottle caps; shards of glass and cigarette butts and scraps of rubber burnt off of tires.

"It's your day, Angela Lester."

I look up, startled at the sound of my full name. Not that Phil doesn't talk to me this way a lot. But the thing is, there's something in his voice now- something especially soft around the edges. As I meet his eyes, I can see the sadness glittering behind them- so strong it is sickening.

"You deserve to pick something out."

A deep sigh flutters from my lips. I tilt myself back and land in his offer of an embrace, twisting around to burrow my face in the refuge of his shoulder. His sweatshirt smells like him. Humanness- sweat and tears and thirst and desperation. Bad habits- cannabis, tobacco and the occasional beer and whiskey. Something else is there too. It's something wonderful- though I can't quite put my finger on it- a pungent scent like fresh rain, mingled with warmth and sweetness. I draw in deep breaths through my nostrils, letting the peacefulness shudder back out of my lungs as I snuggle closer against his skin.

I wish I'd never told him when my birthday was.

"I don't need to," I tell him, "it's fine."

But my eyes are shimmering, and he can see it.

"Yes you do. You do. You need to have food."

I'm not ready for this argument, so when his hug tightens around me, I let another sigh tremble free. All at once, we both lean back against the slab of concrete that is the underside of the bridge- our favorite bridge, the one we sometimes pretend to call "home." He doesn't ask me why I'm not answering. Just sits still, barely breathing. I suck in deep ragged gulps of the chill morning air, my breath making tiny clouds of mist that curl around us. When I start to shake, I notice his arms tense even more. I cling to them and trace them, my fingers brushing up and down their lengths, from shoulder to elbow to wrist. Even under the silky smooth cotton of his fraying jacket, I can feel the track marks on his skin, patchy and swollen, too many to count.