God will punish the Wicked

God will punish the wicked, reads the big cardboard sign on our, no, on my wall. It's still hard to think of anything as mine: for so long they have been mine and his, ours. I'll get used to it, even Sarah says that, but nowadays I don't believe it anymore. It's been two years, and he's still here. He'll be here forever. I take a sip from the mug. The coffee is cold; like his limbs when I touched him for the last time. Shit, I whisper to myself, it's been two fucking years, get over it. But the truth is that I can't get over it, I'm in it. The coffee spills all over the counter, and the cheap porcelain mug cracks at the bottom. Shit.

I get up from the chair, and topple to the ground; every breath an agony. My throat feels like a raw, tender patch of heat, like someone has just put a desert inside of me. I swallow a couple of times, as to wash away the pain, but it won't just go. I can't blame it though, even I don't just want to go.

Meriwether Lewis's last words were, “I am not a coward, but I am so strong. So hard to die.” And I reckon it must be true, but it cannot be much harder than being left behind.

I curl on the ground, knees tucked into my chest, and I scream. I stop just to inhale, then I scream again. Inhale. Scream. Inhale. Scream. -I'm so sorry. -

When I had said that to Sarah, the day it all happened, she had grabbed my hand. -You've got nothing to be sorry about, Katherine. -She had said in her soothing, lovely voice. -There was nothing you could have done- But if only she knew.

It was a car accident, they had said, but that was bullshit. It wasn't a car accident, I know. And that knowing drives me crazy.

I'm finally able to get up, and with a muffled groan I drag myself across the old carpet. I don't even know where I want to go: I can't escape these four walls, I can't escape this labyrinth of pain, and I can't escape him.

Our, Goddamn it!, my, bathroom is the size of a small cubicle, with a full-length mirror behind the door; so, I can't escape the reflection of my naked self as I lean in to turn the rusty shower faucet. It's not that I don't like my body, I don't like my being so alive, and the thought of him being so death and cold. The water trickles slowly from the showerhead; there must be no pressure in the pipes. No, the pressure is all on me. I feel paralyzed in silence, terrorized. What am I afraid of, anyway? The thing has happened, he's dead, he's gone. It's too easy, dying, I mean; one moment you're here, and then...POOF, you're just gone.

I can't fall asleep. Dawn is slow in coming, as the final “Amen” in the prayers. The preacher always postponed it, “for the virtue of patience” he said, with a little twinkle in his beady eyes. But even that was bullshit, he just liked holding the power to shape our afternoons; knowing he could hold little kids trapped on their chairs just by his silence.

The rickety radiator can't keep me warm; nothing can. So I just lay on the double bed, desperately trying not to think about him, which obviously is a way to think about him. He had a beautiful, crooked half-smile. And his eyes, God, I loved his eyes; those gleamy windows that were always open on some universe other people couldn't see. We didn't talk much, or even looked at each other, but I felt a special connection with him; besides, we were looking at the same sky together, which is more intimate than eye contact. Anyone can look at you in the eyes and say “I love you”, but to find someone who can look at the same word you see, and don't say “I love you” because he knows that you know that he loves you, that is quite rare. And now.

And now he is dead, just flesh rotting. But I didn't love him, not in the past tense, I love him. I love his present tense.

The sun is now shining bright through the blinds; the day has come. Somehow, I find the strength to roll out of bed, for the last time. I put on a new skirt and the leather jacket he had gifted me for my thirtieth birthday. The strip of carpet that runs down the stairs does not send chills through the naked soles of my feet, like the bare concrete of my bedroom did. I pad to the living room, where on the coffee table, outlined by a thick layer of dust, lays the Book. It's not the Bible, nope; but, for me, it's the Book for excellence; so sacred I didn't even touch it in these two years. It’s the book he was reading when he died, or to be exact, when he was murdered.

But today I grab it up, and slowly open the cover. The faint smell of pine brings back all the memories I had tried so hard to keep hidden for years. As I read the too small printed letters, I hear a knock on the door. Finally.

I grab a pair of sandals and flip flop the concrete patio, to open the gate. And there he is, Davis, the killer. After the “accident” he tried to become a friend, failed miserably, to be honest. But he still thinks that I like him; strange, how the world works.

-Hey, Katherine! -he says, as soon as I open the door, -how have you been? -

-Not bad. -That's a lie, my life is a lie. -Come inside. -

He does, slumping on the couch. -Wait here. -I say, going in the kitchen. -I'll bring you something to drink. -

The kitchen is completely white, aseptic, and the only trace of color are the little red handles. I take out two tea bags and let them soak in the hot water. Then, in Davis' cup, I put a grain of Batrachotoxin; it was so difficult to find. In two minutes I'm back. -Let it cool a bit. -I say, putting down the tray.

He just nods and then smiles at me. However, the smile wipes off his toad-like face when I ask him to repeat what happened that night. -I already told you, Katherine! -he complains, feebly. -It's been two years, get over it. -

-Please, for the last time. -I beg him.

He pierces his too-thin lips and blows out. -All right. I was just driving on the highway when I saw his car's headlights. I honked, but he didn't seem to notice; so I got on the side and let him drive past me. But, God knows why, he swerved and crashed into me. -

-Did you see his face before he hit the car? Was he asleep? -

-I didn't; there wasn't much time. I thought I'd die, but here I am. -

Yup, I think, nodding, here you are. -I understand. Was he dead when you got to the car? -

-I... I did everything I could, but he was already gone. The airbag didn't seem to function, and the steering wheel hit his chest. -

I wince a little at the image. -I've seen the tape, you know? -I finally say, in a little growl.

He looks surprised, and takes a sip of tea. Finally. I had waited two whole years for this single moment. Finally. -The camera on his car recorded the whole thing, you asshole. He was driving all by himself, and you hit him with the car. Die, bitch. Die. -And, as he gasps for breath; feeling for the first time as I felt for the eternity of these years, I smile; justice has been done.

God will punish the wicked, but before he does, I will.