Mistake
It was autumn, and it was growing colder, with every word spoke you could
see your breath. The light of day
was on its way. The guilt he had
laid like a cinderblock in the pit of his stomach.
His head ached and the cracked skin that covered the swollen bruised
knuckles of his pale worked hands was crusted with deep sticky red.
His wrist throbbed, but emotionally he was numb.
He looked like he had been drug through a knot hole, dark rings under his
eyes, the taste of cheap whiskey fresh in his mouth and the ever lingering smell
of foreign perfume was still on his collar.
He picked himself up from the wet lawn covered in dew.
He struggled not to slip on the damp leaves as he made his way up the
stairs, mind racing, stomach doing back flips.
The only sound from inside the house was that of Janis Joplin softly
screeching behind the weeping of an all too familiar face.
The air and the tension were thick. The
dry humid air made him feel that his tongue was permanently stuck to the roof of
his mouth. His big leather boots,
untied, click clanked with every step. The
thud echoed through his chest as he neared the landing.
His balance was almost as up to par as his will to keep his eyes open.
He was fatigued; he’d been up all night thinking of the best way to say
what weighed heavily on his mind… there she sat, tears welled in her big blue
eyes. He dragged a chair across the
old wooden floor and sat beside her. She
grabbed his hand as if he’d been gone for years.
He lowered his head, avoiding eye contact and said the only thing she
wanted to hear, “I am Sorry”.