And I Love You the Most (This Love Hurts 3)

“Dead?” Charlie sounds shocked I’d use that word. Although I can feel his gaze on me, I don’t look back up at him.

“He said they deserve to die,” I say before taking another bite of the apple, although this time, it tastes sweeter.

“Oh yeah?”

He doesn’t take me seriously. They never do.

“Yeah, he killed a bunch of Talvery’s guys last week.”

That gets Charlie’s attention. The atmosphere turns darker as the sun falls behind the tree line. Soon it will be nearly pitch black under this canopy. I don’t have much time left to convince him.

“I’ve heard if you pray at the graveyard, he hears. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to pray.”

Goosebumps and the chills that come with my story are an added blessing. The wind whips by and Charlie slips his hands into his hoodie’s pockets, still refusing to take his concerned eyes off of me. I can practically see the wheels spin in his head as he contemplates Finley’s death. Praying for a justice that he knows damn well he’ll never get otherwise.

“What are you praying for?” he asks me and I finally meet his gaze when I answer, “That the men who hurt us get what they have coming to them.”

The coldness swirls around me and another minute passes, the night sky getting darker. Charlie arches his neck, looking up at the canopy of leaves as if asking them a question.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Marcus says I shouldn’t tell strangers my name,” I’m quick to respond, and I can tell he doesn’t like that answer.

With his head tilted he questions, “You know this Marcus well?”

“I’ve spoken to him once.”

“How’d you do that? Praying and waiting for an answer?”

“Why? Do you want me to give him a message? The last guy did. I don’t mind being the pigeon. Birds are good, he says. It’s the dogs that are bad.”

Present time

It surprises me how many times I’ve overheard conversations discussing the difference between light and dark. It’s written in poetry and plays. It’s presented as if it’s fact. As if truth can’t be seen in shadows. As if clarity does not shine on the depths of sin in each of us. There is no forgiveness that comes simply because the sun has risen. It is not so easy, nor so simple.

The only difference between light and dark is what our eyes have adjusted to. What we choose to see and believe. The reality is that nothing changes solely because of the amount of light we let in. Anger has always continued to rise anew regardless of every time a person smiles and states some charming line about the sun always coming out after rain, or sings a lyric describing making it through the night.

I’ve often thought I hold that opinion because of the cells we were kept in. We could never tell if it was night or day. There was constant little light in an ever-present darkness. Even in the barn, the day would blur with the night because I often couldn’t sleep through either.

Perhaps the sentiment is more closely related to the quiet. If only people knew that. It’s not the difference between what you can see. These concepts of good and evil, right and wrong have far more to do with what we hear, what we think, and what takes over our minds.

In the night, the burdens of our pasts berate us and remind us they exist without the noise and calamity of the daily ins and outs of society that distract us. The nights are quiet. When you choose a life like I have, all that surrounds me is silence and everything inside of me screams. It’s a constant, just as it was in the cell.

Those thoughts that gather in the darkness for others are a constant for me.

All of the sins I’ve committed, the games I’ve played and the chess pieces I’ve skittered across the board only to have them fall … the voices in my mind mull over each decision constantly.

Countless days have passed where I’ve wondered if I’d made a mistake. If the men I pit against one another deserved the fate I played a part in delivering.

Men have died and I’ve gambled on their lives in order to serve a different, greater purpose.

They’ve all been pawns and nothing more. The question of whether or not I’d made a mistake was easily answered with a name of a victim. Often dozens of them. All the little birds I couldn’t save and occasionally, a bird I was able to help flee.

For every man whose downfall I played a part in, there was always a list of names to justify their deaths. The innocent and the undeserving. Each and every time.

As I step out of my car, there’s only one name that echoes in my mind now: Delilah Jones. Her name is in response to my own and what justice I deserve. I cannot live if she does not make it out alive.