Forgiveness

The judge’s gavel fell, marking the trial's end. The man I had grown to hate over the years was now guilty. Impaired Driving Causing Death—the phrase felt detached from the devastation it embodied. Twelve years. That was his sentence.

From the back of the courtroom, I watched him smile, his hand extending toward his lawyer. The lawyer mirrored the gesture, satisfaction evident. The judge closed the file with practiced indifference and called for the next case. That was it. Over. No fiery speeches, no dramatic evidence to tip the scales. Just silence.

A police officer led him away in handcuffs, his stride unhurried, almost casual. He was heading to a prison where he’d eat, exercise, read—perhaps even study. My wife and daughter would never do any of that again. They would do nothing now. Nothing but haunt my nights, unreachable, their justice forever denied.

The wooden bench groaned as I stood, cutting through the courtroom's oppressive quiet. I felt the guards’ eyes on me, tense, ready. They expected me to snap.

But I didn’t.

I left, descending the courthouse’s floors. My footsteps echoed hollowly, detached, as though belonging to someone else. Strangers avoided my gaze, eyes darting away. It seemed certain that if I passed through them, they wouldn’t feel a thing. That’s how I felt—like a ghost, hollow and unseen.

When I pushed open the doors, January’s chill struck like a slap. I shivered, pulling my coat tighter, and walked to the car. Sliding the key into the lock, I climbed inside.

Twelve years.

My daughter had been four.

The key trembled as I turned it, the engine sputtering to life. As I approached the lot’s exit, the frost-covered barrier came into view.

Twelve years. Was that all it took to erase them? My wife. My daughter. Their laughter. Their warmth. Everything—gone.

And him? He hadn’t stopped at a barrier. Why should I?

My foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The engine roared, my grip tightening as though it anchored me. My mind screamed to stop—the car would be damaged, the police would come. None of it mattered.

The impact came fast, the barrier shattering, the windshield splintering. But the car kept moving. I kept moving.

Was that how he’d felt? The world crumbling around him as my wife’s skull struck his car, as my daughter’s small frame crumpled beneath his wheels?

He hadn’t stopped. Why should I?

I drove home—or what I still called home, though the word had lost meaning. It had been them who made it a home. Without them, it was just walls and silence.

For the first time, I parked in the garage. That space had once been alive with their things—canvases, easels, blank frames waiting for the touch of their brushes. Those were the first things I’d thrown away.

The car’s engine ticked as I turned it off. I stepped inside. In the kitchen, I filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. Its metallic groan sliced through the quiet.

I opened the cupboard and found her teas still there. Chamomile. The box was nearly empty, yet her scent lingered faintly on the edges.

Leaning against the counter, I waited for the kettle to whistle. When the tea was ready, I carried the steaming cup to the library, needing anything to drown out the thoughts clawing at me. The shadows in my mind were growing darker, closing in with every breath.

I pulled a book from the shelf. The Bible.

“Let’s see what you’ve got for me,” I muttered, flipping it open at random.

Matthew 6:14-15: “For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”

The words blurred as rage surged through me. My hands trembled, the tea spilling onto the carpet.

“Forgiveness?” My voice cracked. “How dare you? How dare you ask me to forgive him?”

The anger surged, volcanic and unstoppable. Before I could think, I hurled the Bible across the room. It struck the window with a sharp crack, shattering the first pane of glass before falling to the floor with a lifeless thud.

I stared at the broken glass, my chest heaving under the weight of it all.

"You want forgiveness?" I whispered, trembling, tears streaking my face. "How dare you? You took them away from me. You took everything."

My stomach burned with a fire that felt alive, suffocating. My breath grew shallow and erratic, as though my body was desperate to scream, to demand justice.

Grabbing the cup, I hurled it with all the strength I had left. It shattered against the wall, fragments of porcelain scattering like the shards of my mind.

"You fucking allowed it!"

The words ripped from me, raw and guttural, as I collapsed onto the couch. The anger bled out, leaving only an unbearable hollow ache. My head throbbed, each pulse a punishing reminder.

Was this how my daughter felt when her skull struck the pavement?

"I was supposed to protect them," I choked out. My voice cracked, and the words hung in the air. "You were supposed to protect them! What kind of God are you?"

Stumbling to the kitchen, I gripped the stove and wrenched it away from the wall. My trembling hands found the gas valve, and with a sharp twist, I disconnected it. The hiss of escaping gas filled the room, oppressive, pressing against my chest.

I stood there, letting the air grow heavy, my lungs protesting, but I stayed rooted in place. Reaching up, I opened the cabinet above the oven and grabbed my favorite bottle of rum. The amber liquid caught the dim kitchen light as I twisted the cap off and took a long, burning swig.

Turning to the doorway, I tipped the bottle, pouring the rest onto the carpet. The sharp smell of alcohol rose, mingling with the gas.

I pulled a lighter from my pocket and flicked it open. A tiny flame flickered, hypnotic. Slowly, I lowered it to the soaked carpet and watched as the fire caught, orange and hungry, spreading with graceful ferocity.

For a moment, I stood still, mesmerized. Memories flickered alongside the flames—of the day my wife found that ridiculous black-and-white rug. We’d scoured store after store, my patience fraying. By the sixth stop, I’d snapped that this was the last.

And then her face lit up.

She’d found it.

I thought it was hideous—this absurd, cow-like thing—but the joy it brought her was worth every second.

I turned away from the flames, slipped on my shoes, and stepped outside.

I walked with no direction, no destination. Hail struck my face, growing harder with each step, until I ducked into the nearest open door.

The stale smell of alcohol and urine hit me. A dimly lit dive bar stretched before me, its poker machines flickering in one corner, the low hum of an old jukebox barely masking the silence.

I made my way to the bar. Behind it, a woman with jet-black hair polished a glass with the kind of focus that spoke of habit rather than care. She offered me a faint grimace that might have been a smile but lacked the energy to convince anyone.

I slumped into a seat.

"Chamomile tea," I said flatly.

She snorted. "Sweetheart, this isn’t that kind of place."

"Then give me whatever the fuck you’ve got."

She poured whiskey into a cloudy glass and slid it across the counter. I downed it in one gulp and gestured for more.

"Bad day?" she asked as she poured.

"Bad year," I muttered.

She nodded, her voice flat. "Yeah. Those aren’t easy."

I finished the second glass and motioned toward her. "Join me."

"I can’t," she said.

"Why? You worried about staying sober for this crowd?" I gestured at the empty bar.

That faint, joyless smile returned as she poured herself a small glass.

"So, how’d you end up here?" I asked, leaning forward.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on. What are you—fifty-five? Bartending in a place like this? This wasn’t your childhood dream."

Her face didn’t change, but her lips tightened slightly.

"First of all, you’re a dick," she said, taking a small sip. "And no, it wasn’t my dream. But sometimes life just happens. I do my best."

"And you just let it?" I shot back, my voice sharper than I intended. "You let life steamroll you?"

She reached for my glass, but I grabbed her wrist, holding it firmly.

"Your best, huh?" I asked, nodding at the faint needle marks on her arms.

Her voice remained steady. "It’s been worse."

"You have some?" I asked. "I want it."

"You want it?" she echoed, her green eyes scanning me. "Look at you—with your nice shoes and fancy haircut. Do you even know what you’re asking for?"

I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket and tossed it on the bar. "How much?"

Without a word, she swept up the cash and motioned for me to follow.

Behind the bar, we entered a cramped storage room. I sat on an overturned crate, rolling up my sleeve as she prepared the syringe.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" she asked, her tone distant but tinged with caution.

"I just want to forget," I said. The faint scent of her cheap perfume filled my nostrils. It wasn’t floral, like my wife’s perfume. Hers had been soft and sweet, like spring’s first breath.

The sting of the needle barely registered.

"Look at what you’re making me do," I murmured, my vision blurring. "You’re not a God. You’re a demon. A child burning ants with a magnifying glass."

The world unraveled before me, dissolving into a chaotic dance of dopamine and fractured images.

When I came to, she was shaking me violently.

“Wake up, for fuck’s sake!”

Groaning, I rubbed my eyes, disoriented.

“What time is it?” I muttered, my voice slurred.

“Three a.m. You need to leave.”

I fumbled for my coat and stumbled toward the door. My phone buzzed in my pocket—fourteen missed calls from my brother, the police, the insurance company. Without hesitation, I tossed it into a trash can and pushed the door open.

The bartender followed me outside.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“You’re not sleeping outside in this weather,” she said, crossing her arms.

“I’ll manage.”

She looked me over, her expression firm, almost pitying. “You’re not built for life on the streets,” she said. “Trust me. You’re better off coming with me.”

I followed her in silence, two steps behind. My gaze was drawn to her gait—agile, almost feline—as she walked with a careless grace. Occasionally, she glanced back, her expression unreadable. At times, she offered a faint smile or subtle nod.

We eventually reached a large, red-brick building, its facade worn and weathered by time. The neon above the entrance was broken, leaving the moon to cast pale light over a vagrant sprawled across the threshold. The stench of urine and cannabis hung in the air.

She fished out her keys and fumbled for the right one before unlocking the door.

Inside, the narrow staircase creaked beneath our weight as we climbed to the third floor. She stopped in front of apartment 303, slid the key into the lock, and pushed the door open.

The room was small and cluttered. To the right, a makeshift kitchen bore marks of neglect—plates piled in the sink, crumbs scattered across the counter. At the far end, an unmade bed dominated the space. Scattered clothes and empty bottles littered the floor, adding to the sense of disarray.

She stepped inside and kicked off her shoes, leaving them haphazardly by the door.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said, running a hand through her dark hair. “Make yourself at home. There’s food in the fridge.”

Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared into the small bathroom, leaving me alone.

I removed my coat and shoes, setting them neatly by the door. Curiosity got the better of me, and I began to wander the room. On a narrow shelf near the wall, a pile of self-help books caught my eye. I scoffed and pulled one from the stack, flipping through its pages as I sat on the bed. The words seemed hollow and trite.

“There’s nothing to be done when God is against you,” I read aloud, my voice thick with disdain.

The sound of the shower stopped abruptly, water replaced by the faint creak of the bathroom door. I set the book on the dresser and shifted to the edge of the bed, waiting.

She emerged moments later, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders, drops of water trailing down her neck. A white towel clung loosely to her frame, its edges barely brushing mid-thigh.

I rose, drawn forward by something primal and inescapable. My movements were deliberate, the air between us heavy with unspoken tension.

Her gaze met mine, steady and unblinking, her expression weighted with something unspoken.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the edge of her towel. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled it loose. It slipped to the floor in a soft, soundless heap.

Her arms rose instinctively, crossing over her chest, a shield against the moment. Her damp skin shimmered faintly under the dim light, her body trembling slightly beneath my gaze. I didn’t move closer—not yet. My eyes traced the scar low on her abdomen, the faint stretch marks circling her navel. These delicate imperfections told stories I suddenly wanted to understand.

Finally, I placed my hands on her hips, pulling her toward me. She let out a soft, involuntary whimper that sent a shiver through me. She didn’t resist. Her body yielded, pliant in my hands.

“Is that what you need? To fuck?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

I didn’t answer. Her words hung in the air, unanswered, as I leaned closer. My lips brushed her neck, then drifted lower, tracing the curve of her collarbone.

She remained still, her body receptive, unmoving except for the occasional shiver.

My fingers tangled in her damp hair as my lips finally found hers. She tasted faintly of soap and something else—something haunting.

“Do you just need to let it out?” she asked again, her green eyes searching mine.

I pushed her against the wall, my movements deliberate, forceful. Her eyes never wavered, calm and intense, her expression an unreadable mix of indifference and resignation.

My hands slid down her sides, resting at her hips. The warmth of her skin met the coolness of my touch, and for a moment, I thought she might speak again. Instead, she closed her eyes briefly, exhaling softly.

“Whatever you need,” she murmured. Her tone was heavy, resigned, her words more a truth than an invitation.

“Fucking me won’t bring her back,” she whispered, her gaze locking onto mine, unwavering. “It’ll empty you out, sure. But it won’t heal you. It won’t bring you peace. You’ll just hate yourself more.”

Her words hit like a sudden gust, knocking the air from my lungs. I froze, her gaze holding me in place, her voice relentless in its quiet defiance.

The world seemed to stop. Her gaze locked onto mine, unrelenting, pulling me into a depth I wasn’t ready to face. It held me there, suspended, as though the very air around us had thickened.

I felt the room begin to tilt, the weight of her words pressing down, anchoring me to a reality I couldn’t escape. My feet felt like lead, rooted to a world that refused to let me run.

“You’re not the only one suffering,” she said, her voice sharp, almost defiant. “The whole world suffers. This isn’t Earth—it’s hell. They spoon-feed us hope, just enough to keep us alive. And when that stops working, they shove pills down our throats to numb us, to keep us from feeling anything at all.”

Her words carved through me, each one cutting deeper than the last. And then I fell. My knees hit the floor, my palms pressing into the cold, unyielding surface beneath me. I felt it—finally felt it—that pain I had been burying so deep, for so long. It surged through me, raw and molten, tearing through the fragile walls I’d built around it.

I broke.

She knelt in front of me, her eyes steady and unwavering, a quiet strength in the storm of my collapse.

“But in suffering,” she said, her voice soft now, carrying an unexpected gentleness, “you are not alone.”

Tears spilled down my face, hot and relentless, carving paths through the twisted mask of anguish I wore. Every sob that escaped my chest felt like it might tear me apart, but I couldn’t stop. The grief poured out of me, unstoppable and devastating.

And she held me.

Her naked body pressed against mine, her warmth an anchor in the chaos. My head rested on her shoulder, and I cried into her, my tears streaking her skin, crashing onto her like tiny, breaking waves.

But the hate—it simmered, molten and alive, clawing at the edges of my sanity. I hated Him most of all. That omnipotent, omniscient fraud. He saw it all—the headlights, the crunch of metal, the blood pooling beneath their bodies—and He did nothing. Not a whisper of intervention, not a flicker of mercy. I hated Him for their screams, for the silence that followed, for the breath He still let me take.

And the driver? That bastard was just His tool, wasn’t he? A drunk pawn in a celestial game rigged from the start. But what gutted me most was the reflection in the mirror. I hated myself for surviving, for walking away while they couldn’t. For standing here, breathing, while their laughter was buried under six feet of earth.

That night, that barmaid became something I hadn’t known I needed—a balm.

A momentary reprieve from the war I waged against Him.