Whispered Prayers of a Girl

“Hey, Jeremy. Can I ask a big favor?”

Thirty minutes later, I’m turning down the road that leads to Alexander’s land. After calling Jeremy and asking if he could watch the kids for a while, I took off, an unexplainable force driving me to see Alexander.

I make it to the bridge over Hallow’s Creek, and my stomach bottoms out when I see Alexander’s truck at the bottom of the embankment, almost under the bridge. Curiosity and dread have me pulling over and exiting my vehicle. As I walk down the small hill, I thank God that his truck shows no sign of an accident. My eyes catch on two crosses that have been placed in the ground, one smaller than the other, and I know they are for his wife and daughter. An ache forms in my chest, because this is the reason he’s here.

Looking around, at first I don’t see him, but I know he has to be here. When I do finally spot him, he’s hunched over with his arms resting on his raised knees and his head hanging between his legs. The position is telling enough, but when I call his name and he looks up at me, my heart feels like it’s been pierced with a serrated knife.

His face is wet with tears and his eyes are bloodshot. A bottle of alcohol dangles from one hand, and it looks to be about three-quarters empty. The temperature isn’t quite freezing, but it’s still cold enough and he’s only wearing a light jacket. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time he’s done this. I’d even go so far as to say he does this every year on the same day. This is the place he lost everything. The thought brings tears to my eyes.

Cautiously, I walk over and get down on my knees in front of him. Even through my jeans, the ground is cold. He watches me with bleary eyes. When I take the bottle from his hand, he blinks at me slowly, like he’s unsure of what’s going on. A gust of wind swirls around us, and I feel it in my bones, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Alexander,” I say in an agonized whisper. Seeing him like this tears me up inside.

“What?” he grunts.

“What are you doing to yourself?” I ask the question that I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to.

When he answers, his voice is strong and much clearer than you’d think coming from someone who’s drunk almost a full fifth of whiskey.

“Paying the price the only way I know how.”

He reaches down by his hip and produces another bottle of alcohol, this one full and unopened. I contemplate taking the bottle from him, but decide against it for the moment. As much as it pains me to see him drink his sorrows away, this is his way of coping and who am I to deny him? I saw the beer in the fridge when we were staying with him, but they were pushed all the way to the back, which makes me think him drinking is a rare occurrence.

“Why are you here?” he asks before taking a big swallow of the amber liquid, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I was worried about you. You shouldn’t be alone.”

He looks at me for a moment, his eyes drooping slightly, before he looks away. His jaw is tight and the hand not holding the bottle balls into a fist. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “But I won’t leave you here by yourself.”

His eyes swing back to me and the look in them reminds me of the day we first met in the market. Despondency, regret, and anger flash in their depths.

“I don’t want you here,” he growls as he leans forward.

Although I know the anger is born out of guilt and pain, I still flinch at his tone. He sees it, and for a moment it looks like he’s going to apologize as torment replaces the guilt and pain, but then the emotion is gone and his face goes blank. His head drops back against the concrete with a thud and he closes his eyes.

Walking on my knees until I’m on the other side of him, I settle my back against the pillar. Our shoulders touch as I wrap my arms around my knees. It’s early evening in winter time, so the sun will be setting shortly. The temperature is sure to drop at least ten degrees, and I’ll likely be frozen come the end of this, but there’s no way I’m leaving him out here alone. He can push and shove all he wants, but it’ll get him nowhere.

We sit this way for a while, neither of us saying a word. I don’t want to interrupt his thoughts, I just want him to know I’m here if he needs me. Every so often, the breeze will pick up, sending a shiver through my body. I try to hold off the shakes, but they end up getting the best of me and I start shivering. His arm that’s pressed against me moves occasionally when he lifts the bottle to his lips.

After thirty minutes, I feel eyes on me and look over. He’s watching me with a frown and the side of his face that’s scarred is pulled tight. I can smell the whiskey on his breath every time he breathes out, and it mixes with his own personal scent.

His frown turns into a scowl and he turns his head away from me with a muttered “fuck” before he clumsily climbs to his feet. I make a move to get up to help, but he shoots me a look and growls, “Stay there.”

I watch as he staggers his way to his truck. His movements are sluggish, but he’s still moving relatively well for having drunk so much.

He slams the truck door, and I’m surprised when he comes back with a blanket.

“Sit up,” he barks when he’s standing in front of me. I ignore the harsh command and do as he says. He unfolds the blanket and places it around my shoulders, making sure to tuck it around the front of me. The gesture is sweet, and I know he’s doing it because he cares, even if his tone and attitude say otherwise.

“Thank you,” I state once he’s back to leaning on the pillar. He doesn’t answer, just takes another swallow of his drink.

Again, we sit in silence. The sun is starting to set behind the trees, leaving behind a beautiful purple and pink sky, and I?

??m grateful for the blanket. I lean my head back against the pillar and rest my eyes. A few minutes later, I open them when Alexander starts to talk, his voice devoid of emotion. His eyes are closed.

“I met Clara the summer my family and I went to help my aunt and uncle move. They lived a few hours away from here and were moving across the country for my uncle’s new job. On the second day we were there helping them pack up, the family that was buying the house came by to take measurements for a back porch they were going to add on. It was Clara’s family. I had only just turned fifteen at the time, and she was fourteen, but I remember thinking she was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. We struck up a conversation, but they were only there for about thirty minutes before they left again, so I wasn’t able to learn much about her. It bothered me, because I wanted to see her again. I thought I wouldn’t get the chance, but on the fourth day, they came back and then again a day later, which was our last day there.”