Redemption

Hello internet friends. And strangers. It's been a while. My schedule has picked up and unfortunately hasn't left a lot of time for writing. I've also been working on some longer pieces which are taking a while for me to finish. I hope it will be worth the wait when I post them! This piece was written as a memo on my phone, and is based off of a writing prompt on reddit ("Someone is followed by the person who ruined their life, who has since won the world's biggest lottery jackpot and is trying to use the money to make amends"). I think it's a bit heavy-handed, but I think that's more due to the fact that I was writing in a constrained space; now that I have it typed up, I hope to expand it a little and make it a little less clunky in places.

          He watches her walk down the street in slow, measured steps, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. She is dressed in a tidy skirt and jacket, her hair pulled into a tight bun, with a few escaped tendrils curling delicately at her slender neck. Though he cannot see her face, he knows the features well, the thick, pursed lips, eyes slightly downcast - the only betrayals of sadness in her otherwise confident manner. He follows, keeping his distance, one hand in his pocket stroking the thick paper between his thumb and forefinger. He knows where she is going, but keeps his eyes on her nonetheless, noting the droop in her shoulders as she nears home. Her steps slow, ever so slightly. He keeps his pace, drawing closer, but his throat tightens and his heart skitters in his chest at the thought of closing that distance, of finally seeing up close the pain in her eyes. He bites his tongue, using the pain to steady himself, but his steps have faltered. This is the most important part, but finally his fear is catching up to him. Guilt roots him in place.

            Ahead, she pauses, searching for her keys, and he realizes, too late, that he is stopped near where they lie on the street, fallen from her purse. His moment has come, though he knows now that he is not ready for it, may never be ready for it. Steadying himself, he stoops to pick up the keys and strides purposefully toward her, keeping his face steadily blank.

            "Excuse me, ma'am, but I think you dropped these."

            He holds out the keys, keeping his eyes downcast, but the temptation is too great now that he is here. She starts to express her thanks, then falters as their eyes meet. He sees a look of confusion on her face as she recognizes something in his features. He has changed so much since he was sixteen, he thought he would be beyond recognition, but he realizes how she must have memorized his face all those years ago.

            He mutters something about needing to leave and presses the keys into her hand, then strides down the street as though he has some purpose at the far end. At the corner he pauses and looks back, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face as she opens her mailbox, but sees instead that she is crouched down, picking up a piece of paper from the ground. He feels in his pocket and feels the shooting sensation of alarm as he realizes that it is not there. As she stands up, clutching the paper, he sees the newspaper clipping in his mind as she is reading it; the words, beyond recognition after so much rubbing, are worn away, but the two pictures, a young, smiling girl, and a heap of twisted metal and smoke, are still clear in their stark juxtaposition. This isn't what he wanted. He hadn't meant for her to know, had only wanted to see her face as she opened her mailbox to find the lottery ticket and the note that read, simply, "For the Millie Fund". He had wanted to look in, one last time, to see a trace of hope on her face, in place of the sorrow that still clouded her features when she was alone.

            He sees her now, walking up the steps, and opening the mailbox. Sees her pull out his letter and read it. He cannot bear to go back now that she has seen him, now that she knows, but perhaps it will be enough to see it from afar. But instead of cries of joy, he watches as she searches down the street for him, then tears the paper into small squares and throws it over the side of her porch.

            The walk home is slow and filled with pitying thoughts. For her, for himself. He had hoped to have one last chance at redemption, but had not counted on her anger. He had hoped to make things right, had thought this would be enough.

            When he reaches his apartment he brings out the second sheet of paper and places it on his desk. It is short and full of regret. Then he gathers what he needs and prepares himself for the end.