Dried the Bitter Tear

The man at the bus stop looked normal; jeans, t-shirt, nice leather jacket, understated.  He just looked like he had been cut out and superimposed on the scene, slightly crooked, with a black edge around him.   I had to walk past him to take my place in the line.  He smelled good.  I never made eye contact with anyone if I could help it.  It was a long ride to work and I didn’t like to talk to people.  But I looked at him as I passed.  I couldn’t help it; he drew the eye.

He wasn’t very good looking, or tall, or thin or anything noticeable.  Just a normal man, a little tense.  When the bus came, I went to my usual spot, about halfway down.  I sat next to the window, headphones in, book on my lap, office skirt pulled tight around my knees.  He was a few seats back, but I could feel him like a spider on the back of my neck.  I rolled my shoulders and huddled around my book. 

The bus jerked away from the kerb and he sat beside me.  A wave of sensation washed over me.  His mouth moved.  I pulled the headphones from my ears. 

‘Help me.’

He wanted money.  I always kept a twenty in my coat pocket in case I got mugged.  I didn’t want him near me.  He made me feel odd.  I pulled out the bill and held it out.  He didn’t look at it. 

‘Help me.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I...my wife is dying.’

‘Do you need an ambulance?’

‘I just need you to help me.  You’re the only one who can.’

I looked around.  The other passengers were chatting to their friends or buried in iPods and newspapers.  I tried to stand but he grabbed my arm and his fingers bit into me.  I opened my mouth to scream but he spoke into the tiny space.

‘Please.  Please don’t.  I need your help.  I...there is no other way.’

His face was close to mine.  I saw that he would have been good looking under different circumstances.  He looked exhausted.  Worse, he looked hopeful.  Desperately so. 

‘What can I possibly do?’

‘Come with me.’

‘No way.  Let me up or this time I will scream.’

‘I can’t explain.  You just have to come with me.  It won’t take long.’

I dragged his hand away from me and stood up.  I forced my way past his knees and he didn’t try to stop me.  I walked up the bus and sat in the seat behind the driver.  The man didn’t come after me, but I was aware of him.  When the driver pulled in at my stop, I walked as fast as I could towards my building.  I looked back when I got to the door.  He was standing on the sidewalk staring at me, hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.  I went inside.   If he was still there later, I was calling the cops. 

I could see the street from my office, but I kept my gaze averted all morning.  The tension gave me a headache.  Before lunch I asked for the afternoon off.  I didn’t want to leave the building after dark.  When I stepped outside with the lunch crowd, I scanned the street before leaving the safety of the doorway.  He was nowhere to be seen.  I caught the bus and breathed again when I saw he wasn’t on it.  I exited the bus keeping close to a pair of chatting middle aged women.  I got into my building and upstairs without seeing him. 

He barrelled into me from behind when I was unlocking my door, clamping his hand over my mouth.  He shoved me through the door and threw me onto my couch, winding me.  He sat beside me and covered my mouth again. 

‘Keep your mouth shut or I’ll hurt you.’

I kept my mouth shut, thinking of the baseball bat I kept next to my bed.  I didn’t like guns but I had a swing that would hurt him if I could get to the bat.  He took his hand away from my mouth and when I didn’t scream, he reached into his coat. 

When he took out the hypodermic, I made a bolt for the bedroom.  I had my hand on the bat before he reached me.  He knocked me back onto the bed and held me down with his body.  I saw the desire on his face and tried to kick him off.  

He leaned down and put his mouth close to my ear. 

‘I love you,’ he whispered.  I bit him in the neck.  He cried out and rolled off me but didn’t let go.  He dragged me to the end of the bed and pulled a few scarves from my dresser drawer.  I fought hard but he gagged me and tied me to the metal foot of the bed.  He was panting when he finished.  I kicked at him when he approached me with the needle but he looked so desperate that I think he didn’t even feel it.  I stopped fighting when he tried to put the needle into me.  I was afraid it would break off inside me.  He filled it with blood and took it out, capping it and putting it into his pocket with great care.  He put a piece of cotton on my arm and stuck it down with a strip of white tape. 

‘I’m going now.  I’ll untie one of your hands so you can get free when I’m gone.  I’m sorry I had to hurt you.’

He untied one of the scarves.  He looked at me for a long moment and then leaned over and kissed me on the top of my head. 

‘See you soon, my darling.’

He walked into the room and smiled.  He held up the syringe full of blood and I let out a breath that was half a sob.  He sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand, careful not to pull against any of the tubes. 
 

‘You were right,’ he said. ‘I had to fight for it.’
 

‘Was I terrible?’
 

‘No, my darling, you were perfect and you will be again.’
 

I touched the years-old scar on his neck where I had bitten him.  When he put the needle in my arm, I felt the rush of colour and life flood into my body.  My own blood, my only hope. 
 

A cure from the past.  

Time and Grief, by William Leslie Bowles

O Time! Who know’st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile:
As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour,
Sings in the sun beam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:-
Yet ah! How much must this poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!