Dead Awake: The Last Crossing by hades Page A

longer shout those words, only whisper them. “I am not
like that... I would not kill... him.” The poem seemed to burn into
my hand as a witness in contrast to those words. It felt as though
it had been written and sent to judge me, and now was pronouncing
that awful verdict on my character; so I spoke to it directly, as a
man would speak to the jury for his defense. I spoke to it, and not
to the man who had written it, as if the poem were an entity of its
own.
    “ I am not that way, I tell
you! I will not fight to kill another man.”
    I crumbled the paper and
cried for a while on the porch. There was nothing left to do that
could change what had happened, so I went inside to sleep – to wait
for tomorrow. Perhaps a better tomorrow.

CHAPTER 7
    Fireflower
    The next day came all too
soon and all too miserably. Again, I found myself searching for
some answers that would explain what it was I had done that had
taken it too far – far enough for her not to want me any more. What
had I done that was so wrong?
    Still, No matter how much I
tried to justify my actions; my blame, or lack of blame in the
matter, ceased to be important. I could have been in my right all
along, but who cared? I didn’t-any more. What did it matter when
she was no longer there? It didn’t make any sense, any more, to be
in the right. If I said I was sorry and got her back, then by all
means, “Sorry”! What could make my pride break, if my whole soul
was already broken? I couldn’t live without her any more, so who
was I kidding? Fate was fate. I’d have to eventually go over to her
house, beg forgiveness, grovel, and cry madly. But as much as I
wanted to, subduing my ego and pride was a thing that would prove
harder in deed than in thought.
    I fought hard at mastering
myself, but felt the grip of fearful pride that held me back, like
a giant hand around my waist. I was scared to face her. Scared as
one would be that has to face someone so mad and try to say you’re
really sorry, especially when that someone might not forgive any
more. No, I couldn’t do it right away.
    So I did the next best
thing; I snuck around and spied on her for a while.
    Behind bushes and under the
cover of nice large objects dove the dark shadow that watched her
house. I could run fast enough, and close enough, that I could
almost get a peak inside. I had the idea that if I went fast
enough, they wouldn’t be able to see me. It was a ridiculous idea,
but who could get me to see the foolishness in it? The whole day
was exhausted in finding new ways to get closer without being
noticed. I even convinced some guy to lend me his bicycle for a
moment so that I could get an edge in my spy-game.
    All the day long I watched,
but never really saw Noelia. One time I got a look in one of the
windows and saw some people there, but it was too fast to get a
good look. None of them were familiar. That was odd. Maybe some
family members were visiting, or some neighbors.
    All my pains that day were
in vain, for I never got to see her. What could she be doing? The
curiosity was itching like a nasty fungus. I tried much harder the
next day, and the next, but never got one peek. All the while a
slow paranoia began to spill into my blood. Why was she nowhere to
be seen? And who were all those people? Could it be that she was in
trouble, or maybe hurt?
    That thought brought the
first wave of an ocean of anxiety crashing into my head. Later, it
became more menacing and harder to ignore. All day long I spent
looking and worrying; long eyes seeking for some focus through an
open window that was so unkind. And it got the best of me, to the
point that I got careless.
    So intense was the urge to
know how Noelia was that I could no longer resist. I made my way
right up to her door and, relentless, I refused to take
precautions. Then I saw an open window. That window! But fear got
the best of me right before I was able to see anything, and lucky
for me, for I would have been discovered.
    Not two