STORY OF THE MONTH
All Saints’ Day
by Jessica Del Balzo
11:06 a.m.
You think about how things will be with her. You think she’ll never leave, but she will. They always do. Makes sense, though. That warm, beginning phase lasts as long as a freakin’ band-aid, the little ones you place on a paper cut; as long as spray-on hair color on Halloween. Some luscious lilac shade becomes sticky gray by morning. You can still see it dripping down her shoulders in the shower.
So while she dries off you write another poem about what you don’t want to face and call it evidence.
When the poem is stale in your fingertips, you walk to the bed and pick up the glittery white wings she wore last night. Candy wrappers tossed on the ground remind you of all that thick sugar that got you from last night to today. Now you can go on chasing tomorrow and then spend the next day chasing, searching, hoping she’ll follow you. That longing, reaching look is never gone from your face, the way scars from falls on dark pavement do not go away.
You think that she might be the one to follow you or even save you, reluctant as she may be now and again. You would make it easy, but that would take effort. She’s a smart girl. She’ll know what you need. She knows you love her. You remind her every chance you get, especially when you wish that she would just say it first.
Just give me a chance to tell you, she said once, instead of constantly telling me I don’t say it enough.
Sometimes you bleed your love all over her when she takes her hands away from the wounds you’ve written her name on. You want her to stay and she does, sewing you back up every time you undo the seams running up and down your arms.You are so angry, she will tell you in her quiet way the first time you have a fight. She doesn’t seem like the type to scream back. And it’s going to be that quiet voice that will eventually pull the trigger. Still, you hate thinking about your own guilt. The pain she is going to cause you will only be equal in measure to the pain you will cause her. You can just see it. -Somewhere far from you, she will still smell blood under fingernails that no longer grow.She steps into the sunlit room and stands facing you now. Her hair is wild and drenched and it makes her eyes look even bluer. The new November light catches them and you have to look away. You can almost see everything she is thinking, but you have no idea what she is about to say. At first she says nothing, just stares at you.
Her hands are so small, especially with her nails clipped so short. You notice how red the tips are. They’re so raw, probably from the way she picks at them. She’s doing it now.You hand her the wings and wink. She smiles, eyes and everything.“I love-,” she says.“You’re no angel,” you whisper and hug her too tight.The silence is like that one last piece of candy, or the last lollipop, because the only way to share it is to leave it alone. She touches your hand and walks over by the window, to her purse, in search of gum- no, car keys. The room feels empty and echoing. The wood floors bounce the rays of sun into your face so you can’t even see all of her.I just hope I get to kill you before you kill me, you think she says. But she’s not even looking at you. She just stares at the wings.
