Page 61 of Drag You Down
I don’t know if I can.
I’m not sure if it’s late at night or extremely early in the morning. All I know is that I need to get home, and I’m not entirely positive how I’m going to make that happen. I have no idea where I am. I have very little money. The streets aren’t exactly quiet, but they aren’t bustling, either.
I take a deep breath, trying to gather myself. God will provide a way home. He always provides.
I’ve never been out in the city this late at night. I thought the darkness would press in on me, but New Bristol’s sinful nightlife keeps the streets illuminated.
I am surprisingly grateful for that.
Wherever Gabriel took me, though, it’s a nicer part of the city than I usually walk in. The storefronts I walk past are for luxury brands, and the cars that go by look shiny and new.
I’m tempted to hail a cab, but I have only a few dollars in my pocket, nowhere near enough to pay for the fare.
A bus stop up ahead has an old, faded map on display next to the large advertising screen. I can’t make out much, but I do learn that I’m near the finance district.
I think it’s too late — too early? — for the buses to be running, which means I’ll have to continue by foot.
That’s across the bridge from home. It’ll take me at least two hours to walk home, I realize with dismay. And that’s only if I don’t get lost.
I look back towards Gabriel’s luxury condo building, and once again I’m tempted to return to the warmth of his bed.
I shake the feeling off and start walking south. I just need to follow this road to the bridge. I can do that.
Maybe there’s a payphone somewhere so I can call Father Zachariah—but of course the city removed its payphones years ago. Would a bar that’s still open at this hour allow me to use their phone?
I walk past a bar that’s still open, and I hear the rowdy sounds of drunk people. A man and a woman stumble out the door, laughing and pawing at each other.
I’m not sure what to think.
Only a few weeks earlier, I’d have scorned them, but now I’m afraid to judge.
Jesus wouldn’t have judged them.
He’d walked among the downtrodden and encouraged others to empathize with them.
I’m no Jesus, but I can do better than others.
Father Zachariah would judge.
What does that mean for them, for me?
Discomfort gnaws at me, and I avert my eyes in shame.
I keep walking, and my feet begin to ache. I know if I stop, though, it’ll be impossible to keep walking. I’ll lose the small bit of momentum that I have.
I don’t know how long it takes me to reach the bridge, but I breathe a sigh of relief when I reach it. It didn’t seem so long and imposing in the car—what little I can remember of the ride—but now it stretches out across the river, seemingly endless. Cars still zip by despite the late hour.
When I’m on the other side, I need to… I need to…
But I won’t know where to go once I’m there, either. I’ll need to find another map or landmark or ask for directions. I’ll needto call Father Zachariah to pick me up and admit to him what happened and explain why I’m wandering the night like this.
I’ll need to tell him about the blood underneath my nails.
I sob and wrap my arms around myself.
“Rough night?” a rough, feminine voice asks.
My head jerks up, and I look up at her. My tears make it difficult to see her clearly. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I wasn’t trying to disturb you.”
