I had been banned, outlawed, with extreme grievance; on the unwanted list. To step into her neighborhood was criminal trespassing without forgiveness. My picture had been posted as enemy of the state. I was to neither see nor be seen there if I wished to remain alive. She had given me fair - and final - warning; end of conversation. But none of those conditions made me stop needing her.
I could only enter during a quiet time when few were about, taken up by their jobs or sundry errands needing to be done. From afar I scouted the neighborhood until I knew I could cross the border like a defamed immigrant. I caught myself holding my breath, unable to breathe. I looked to the cloudless sky to see if lightening would strike me. I tiptoed down the sidewalk as if I owned it, a thousand absent eyes upon me. Then I smelled smoke. It was from the house of she who banned me.
I looked around for help but alas, I had been too careful in my scouting as the place was truly abandoned. Either I rush in to help her or I run away to deny my presence. I knew if my past did not exist the answer would be easy. Who wouldn't rush into to help? Truth is, I've been running away all my life. And the urge to do so now was overpowering. It's what I knew - and always known - to be safest for me. But a critical voice spoke of me, saying I couldn't not help because of my own committed crimes. I couldn't not help for any reason, actually.
So I rushed inside.
A shelf had fallen over, trapping her beneath it and also knocking a candle into the curtains. I heard her cries for help as I entered - then suddenly stop as she recognized my face. I informed her of my obligation. "Here, let me help."
"Go away! Get out of here!"
"Let me pull you out first then I'll go."
"Don't you dare touch me!"
"But you'll die!"
"That's my business. I don't want you to ever see me again."
I crossed over to grab her arm in the increasing smoke but she violently resisted and not being a strong person myself I could not fend off her resistance. The turmoil of the fire mirrored my turmoil within as my instincts to run were pleading for me to flee, and frankly feeling the desire to oblige her even though she chose death. I heard a creaking from above and stepped back as a ceiling beam crashed down, separating us. I was cut off from her and had to crawl back outside to avoid the smoke. Looking back one last time I saw a curious smile of hate on her face.
A man from the next street over showed up asking what he could do. I had to tell him it was too late, the house was falling down. He had called the fire department and even though the station was close by the fire was too swift. As others arrived home they naturally gathered round to discuss the tragedy. Then a woman recognized me.
"Hey, aren't you the guy on the Unwanted posters?"
I'd been waiting for an appropriate time to depart but up to that point it had seemed too suspicious for me to leave so early. Now I was trapped.
"Not sure, " I mumbled.
A man cried out, "Sure is!" and the lynching was on. I had already volunteered the details of what I saw in the fire but now I was accused of not trying to help her - or maybe even starting the fire! Even though on this particular incident my conscience was clear I was drowning in guilt of my past atrocity and could not fight back their accusations. I covered my face with my hands, masking my shame. Not knowing what to do, I did nothing. Then I heard a voice point me out.
"That's him, officer. That's the son-of-a-bitch who threw that acid on her face. Now he burned her house down too!"
I was handcuffed in silence as I was booed off the stage and into the awaiting police car. I knew I wouldn't be able to protest my innocence. The more facts I told the more it sounded like a lie. The cops had it in for me, asking why I was there, what was my business in that neighborhood where I'd been banished. I had no good answer. Confessing I needed her friendship would only harden them against me. They'd made a mess of their personal lives too, the truth was not in their interest.
If I'd had no past with her, the cops would have let me go. Heck, I wouldn't have been accused in the first place. She was dead so I was too. What does anything matter now? They can railroad me if it makes them feel better. It's amazing how stubborn people can be when they have hold of a false truth they feel exonerates them. Me being the bad guy automatically made everyone else the good guy. My sentence was life without parole. The female judge was especially vindictive in her sentencing speech, calling me a "sick coward" who never should have been let out of jail in the first place.
As the guard escorted me out of the court, her death smile in the flames came back to me and suddenly I understood. She knew this would happen. She always was fucking smart.
CODA: I'm in Hell's hell, inconsolable in my loss. Every night is a lifetime. Did I try enough to save her? Why didn't I try to save myself before they imprisoned me? (I can blame them for not searching for the truth but most people really are walking dead.) This whole ordeal I put us both through is beyond comprehension. Worst part is I want no part of this godawful planet if she's not on it. Maybe that's what her final smile was about, knowing how much I'd miss her. Did she figure out I needed her? Shit, she wasn't sending me to jail like I assumed. I let this happen for nothing - again.
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