Burnt Bridges

I can still remember their muffled cries.

Far beyond the drunken stupor, through the haze of ashy gloom, the faint rhythmic beats penetrated the air. They came quick at first and then slowed to a short adagio. A muffled crackling, a competing polyrhythm with the low bass. The thick air burned the nostrils with each breath in, the peppered air instantly rejected by the lungs--a type of fumes not quite accustomed to. A soft cough, trying hard to clear for a proper breath but none came.

The ceiling swam into existence, a grey cloud swirling in the ceiling fan. It was too warm. Sweat beaded the skin, clinging to the cotton shirt, dripping salt into the eyes. The heat felt like a heavy mass on the shoulders, like Atlas holding the sky and being crushed by the weight.

A young man--barely twenty--laid on a bare mattress on the floor. Empty bottles lay scattered on the carpet, pinpricks of moonlight through the window making their colored glass glow eerily in the dark room. They whispered promises of numbness: let your regrets and mistakes fall to the bottom where they may drown. Replaced with false confidence and more memories to hold under the liquidy depths until they breathe no longer.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead trying to banish the ache. Something was wrong, and he didn’t know what. The urgent beats beyond the door shook him to consciousness, but each one also turned his stomach. He had lost something--the memory had been taken.

Muffled yells. His name. The beats had reached his door. Thumpthumpthump. Get up! Thumpthumpthumpthump. Goddamit. Get up! We have to go.

The smell. The sounds. The urgency. The alarm? Where was the alarm? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Head spinning. He leaned over and vomited on the floor.

…

Ten years can happen in a blip, but also feel like a lifetime. The young man, now advanced in years but looking older far beyond those ten, sat cross-legged on the warm sidewalk, his bare toes brushing against the freshly trimmed lawn. His old house, the past wiped clean with a fresh coat of paint, stood before him curtains pulled tightly shut. It had taken him a long time to muster himself to this spot, and still, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to the door. He didn’t know what he would say if he did.

It was clear that the man did not belong. Alongside the white picket fences and finely kept garden, his soiled clothing and greasy slicked back hair and beard was enough to fend off any curious soul. Children on bicycles crossed the street at the sight of him. Others ran to find their parents to tell of the strange homeless man blocking the sidewalk. What were his intentions? Why had he come here? It wouldn’t be long until the police were called and he was chased off. That was, if he could muster the courage to step onto the property.

“Sir, can I help you with something?” A sweet voice rang above him. The man could help but let out a crooked smile. She’d always been one to break the mold. A young woman, hair like the fire responsible for the blooming scar on her cheek stared down at him. It had been years, and she looked just as much the same as he looked different. Though weary from the afternoon run, she suns glow behind her silhouetted her figure, tendrils of light emphasizing her slender form and freckled features. The light encapsulated her like a halo--the angel he had wished to lay his eyes upon for many years. Sitting on the pavement, matted beard and ragged clothes, he felt unworthy to be looked upon with so much compassion, so much curiosity.

“I’m waiting for someone,” he replied carefully, watching her eyes for any instinct of recognition. If she did, she gave no indication, instead, she pulled her earbuds from her ears and squatted beside him.

“Who are you waiting for?” She asked, moving to sit in the grass in front of him. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and turning her face to the sun. So trusting. If he were anyone else, he could rob her on the spot--or worse. But no, the woman seemed perfectly at ease, crossing her legs and swaying the toes of her tennis shoes to some unknown melody.

“Has my sitting here disturbed your run?”

“Has my stopping disturbed your silence?”

“Touche.”

She chuckled and turned to look back at the children congregating across the street. Some parents had come out now, and the woman simply gave a small wave to ease their distrust. The man furrowed an eyebrow at her in thought. Why did she regard him with such ease?

“Most people when they see me turn the other direction. Why not you?” He wondered if she knew who he was. But that didn’t make sense. If she truly knew--even she who had the largest heart he’d ever known--would walk away.

“A person is a lot deeper than their appearance.” With a small turn, he got a better look at her scar. It sprouted like a lily across her cheek, the petals cascading down her chin across her chest. The skin rippled unnaturally with faint pinks and whites. The image of this woman--this girl--bandages stained red as he struggled to hold them to her face, her small limp body held tightly against him as he stumbled across the threshold of the very building before him. Though she couldn’t scream any longer, his own penetrated the night mixed with the ringing in his own ears. How could this woman be the same girl? Yet, as she sat before him, pulling tufts of grass out, choosing the long ones to braid together, she clearly hadn’t changed.

He suddenly couldn’t meet her gaze. He felt heavy--his own guilt heavier as the drunken stupor he roused himself from that night. He’d come to make amends. He’d come to apologize. But now, thinking of what the last ten years must have been like for this girl, he couldn’t seem to find the right words.

“It was a fire.” She explained, filling the silence. “Police said a cigarette started it. Dropped in the trash can sometime that evening.”

He nodded. It didn’t take much effort to remember the exact light. He’d stumbled in with a few friends--a girl. They hadn’t stayed long. Long enough to light a joint and his friends to bail. Something had angered him--he couldn’t remember what. He was too far gone already. Things were said. Things were thrown. The smoke alarm had fallen and shattered on the floor. In his haste he’d dropped the joint in the trash, not bothering to check if it had gone out.

“Must have been bad.” Was all he could think to say. He stared thoughtfully at the house. A curtain fluttered and a small hand pressed against the glass of the dining room window. A pair of eyes stared back at him. From that distance he couldn’t make out features, but the child had as bright of hair as their mother.

He never realized how he’d taken for granted that age. His sister pattered down the same dining room to look out the same window. He often wondered if there was a heaven. Or if his parents would still be in that house, pounding on his door trying to awake him to get out. Maybe if he’d just gotten up faster. Maybe if he hadn’t broken the alarm. Maybe if he hadn’t dropped that joint in the trash can. Maybe if he hadn’t spent the evening getting drunk. Maybe…

“I’m sorry.”

She watched him for a moment, considering him. She seemed to read his thoughts, the deep guilt and shame laid bare before him like a book. Perhaps she knew him--and if she did, she gave no indication. Before he could say anything else, she stood, brushing the grass off her athletic leggings. She held out her hand to him. A lifeline. Forgiveness? He couldn’t be sure. He took it, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

Without another word, she turned and walked toward the house. She didn’t look back. She didn’t invite or say goodbye. And he watched her. He watched as a little girl greeted her at the door. He watched as she scooped up the child, twirling her around in her arms.

I’m sorry.

With a smile, he turned and walked further down the sidewalk. The police would be by after all. And he wasn’t there to cause problems.