Page 5 of Samuel's Heart

“Yes, we were.” I probably put too much force in my answer and he recoils as if I punched him.

I’m tired of people doubting me, judging me, and tired of those people who think they’re better than me. I love John, and I don’t care if these assholes beat the shit out of me because of who I am. I’m not going to deny who I am and who I love.

“I’m sorry if I’ve misunderstood,” he says, but it doesn’t seem as caring as it was before.

“His family didn’t accept me, so John cut ties with them. It was supposed to be me and him against the world forever.” Our forever didn’t last long, but I never regretted being with him. And I hope he never regretted being with me.

Were we punished because we decided to be together?I want to slap that thought out of my head as soon as it appears. We did nothing wrong; we deserved to be happy.

“I went to their house and asked where the grave was, but they couldn’t send me away fast enough.” I fly over the words they unleashed on me, the name calling, the shame, and the last stab—the accusations about me being the one who’d killed their son. I gloss over the fact that until I found the courage to check with the police, I’d believed their accusations to be true. I had to know, because I couldn’t sleep at night or live with the doubtany longer. I can’t even explain the relief, the way my lungs could finally expand, and bring air and life inside my body. It didn’t bring peace, though, because I still missed him. I couldn’t tell him I loved him one last time.

However, I still don’t remember what happened, and sometimes, what John’s parents told me sounds true.

I have nightmares, but they’re a muddled mess of voices, sounds, and screams. Flashes of that night that I can’t seem to puzzle together.

Some days I want to remember so badly, and others I’m not entirely sure I want to see John’s last moments.

“That’s fucked up.” His disdain is clear in his tone, and it seems like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. His fury, though, speaks volumes.

To make the awkward silence less heavy, I take a sip of my coffee and put all my attention on it. I turn the cup in my hand so I can avoid looking at him. His gaze is too inquisitive and penetrates inside me as if he’s able to read between the lines or just straight inside my head.

“What are you going to do?”

Fuck if I’m not asking myself the same question.

All the fucking time.

I can’t keep coming here, asking the same question over and over again, expecting a different answer, knowing full well that I’ll receive the same reply. But the more time passes, the greater the possibility that at some point they’ll call the police and have me banned from coming here again.

“You should stop coming here,” he says, and I scoff. He’s smashing through an open door.

“I can’t. I need to find those people. I need to see with my own eyes that John’s somehow still alive. That what happened to us was for the greater good. I need to know that his death was to save someone else. Otherwise, everything would be in vain.” If I find those people, I can say goodbye to him through those he saved.

“I might have a way,” he whispers as if talking to himself, and jumps when I invade his personal space.

I’m on the edge of the chair and in his face as soon as his words hit the air. Whatever it is that he wants from me, he can have it. I won’t even have to think about it.

I look at him, and nowhe’sthe one avoiding me by finding his cup interesting. From his face, it’s obvious that he’d like to recall whatever offer he made, but I won’t let him. If he can help, he should. I ignore my conscience telling me I’m forcing people to break their rules, and the man in front of me doesn’t look like someone who has ever broken them. Even if that’s the case, he can’t take his offer back.

“I’ll do what you want, but please . . .” I take his hand in mine. “Please help me.” I let my desperation rise to the surface in all its strength. I allow myself to feel the pain that rots my interior day after day, and I present it all to him, hoping he’ll feel it on his skin.

“I shouldn’t—“

I stop him before he can finish.

“Please, I can’t keep living like this. Having my hopes crushed day after day.” I hope it works, because I really need to move forward, and I can’t do it on my own.

“I offered before I could really think about the consequences.” He shakes his head as if trying to bring some clarity to himself.

“Please help me,” I say, trying to convey everything by tightening the grip I have on his hand and adding the other one as if to cement our agreement.

“I’ll try.” Then he mumbles something that sounds like, “Even if I have to ask someone I’m not fond of.”

I bend my head to touch our linked hands, and stay like that to try and control the emotions trying to spiral out of me. Hope is rising so fast that it makes my head feel light, as if I’ve reached the clouds, or as if I’m a step away from meeting John again.

“I’ll do my best. But I can’t promise anything,” he reiterates, probably seeing the effect his half-promise has had on me.

“It’s more than anyone else has ever done for me, and even if it doesn’t happen, I’m still grateful.”

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