God & Sinner

8. Life After Death

Life had been okay so far, no one had uncovered my secret. I wondered why the villainous red had kept quiet, but I didn't dare question it. No, it was over, and I had moved on—the world did too. Two weeks had gone by without incident—no cops showed up at my door, no ghosts rose up to haunt me. This wasn't my first crime, and it sure as hell couldn't have been the first life I was responsible for. I had dwelled within this element for years and it had made me hard, allowed me to build up impenetrable walls that could withstand anything that railed against them.

But then James had come along, and he'd worked without rest to break down any defense that I'd constructed. It wasn't his fault; I had wanted him to. He was the air in lungs that hadn't tasted fresh breath in too long, the rain that washed away the ink which stained my skin. He had sheltered me, made it so that I could return to who I had been so long ago. He made it to where I could feel again, and now I had to live with the guilt of what I'd done. That night flashed through my head like a movie, and I relived it with vivid detail that made me want to vomit.

The body, the blood, how I stood over him and how I'd ran away. After he'd taken me back, James had wondered what'd been wrong with me then—it was just lucky that he hadn't seen me that night. He was no fool, and even if he was, he knew me too well and it was impossible to hide anything from him. He could see that I was different, forever changed, but there was no way I would ever be able to tell him what had happened. I didn't want to ruin the beautiful way he saw this world. I didn't want to ruin the beautiful way he saw me.

"I made breakfast," he smiled as I came out of the bedroom. That was his way; he didn't seem to remember the terrible things I'd said to him in our argument. I knew that he did, but he refused to dwell, he was the kind of man that could let those things go because he loved me. He was the kind of man that could forget whatever had just happened when I was in pain. That was probably what made him decide to let me come home sooner, when I'd returned the morning after and he could see it all over my face. There was no doubt within me that I meant everything to him, and I knew I shouldn't have been so selfish.

"I'm not hungry." It came out wrong, and I sounded ungrateful. He didn't deserve to be tethered to me, to wait out my unpredictable fears and irrational thoughts. It was obvious, but I wanted to deny that it was only right for me to let him go. He'd never leave, I knew that. It would always come back to me, and in the end I'd have to push him away if I really wanted what was best for him. But I couldn't, because it was true—I was selfish. "Thank you for making it, though."

"You're still not feeling well? I can whip up something else if you want. Soup?" James approached me as I sat down, and he began to massage my shoulders. The way I'd returned to him, broken and in pieces, there was no chance to get away with what I'd done without providing him some kind of explanation. So I gave him lies. I told him I felt terrible for what had happened between the two of us—which wasn't completely untrue. I only hoped it wouldn't incite him to start in again with the same argument. It didn't. Then, when my mood failed to improve, I told him I'd taken ill.

"It's fine, babe." Things couldn't go on this way forever, but I just needed a little more time to work through what had happened. I'd done awful things before, and I still slept fine at night. This would just be another nightmare to lock away, what was one more? James came to sit on the couch beside me, and I was accommodating as he ducked under my arm to cuddle up next to me. I liked the feeling of him there, and I knew it was something I'd be happy to look forward to for the rest of my life. If only the commitment didn't terrify me so much.