It was the fifth call I got from her that day. I finally said yes, just so we could get over it.
It had been raining for more than a week, so much rain it made everyday seemed so restless and gloomy. She called and said she was coming up. It was the third time she came up to see me that week. I carried her excuse of why she came all the way here and went to meet her at the nearby seven-eleven. She was standing there alone, carrying her red umbrella. Her friend had dropped her off. It was raining and she was shivering. She looked weak and fragile in the harsh rain, wearing not enough to keep her warm.
I walked up to her and said, "You shouldn't come see me anymore," and stuff like how we shouldn't be together.
She said, "I miss you."
I told her coldly, "Lets go, I'll take you home."
She did not open up her umbrella, I knew she wanted to share mine.
I said, "Open up your umbrella, let's go."
Unwillingly, she opened up her umbrella and walked with me to the car. She said she hadn't eat lunch or dinner and asked if we could stop at some place to eat.
Right away I answered with a stoned heart, "No!"
Disappointed, she asked me to take her to the train station, she said she would take the train back home. Maybe it was the rain, all the trains were full of people with umbrellas and suit cases who were eager to get home, not caring about who just passed by. We waited and waited, she looked at me innocently. Being together for so long, of course I knew what she meant. I understand how she must have felt when she came all the way here in this kind of weather and I treated her like this. With her soft eyes staring at me, I felt guilt and wanted to let her stay for the night.
But reality struck again, I said to her coldly, "Let's go try the other train station."
She walked slowly behind me until we reached the next train station -- not uttering a word, just feeling the cold rain drop. Once in a while I would glance at her walking behind me. Memories of our walks in the rain flashed before my eyes. Us giggling, hands entwined, not minding the harsh rain or the strong wind blowing. I always enjoyed our walks in the rain because by the time we reach her place or mine, we would be soaking wet, and we don't have any choice but to spend a warm night together in front of the fireplace. Bouts of passionate love-making would ensue, nights of wild and passionate and slow and rough love-making that would linger in my mind for days. But not now. Not anymore, I told myself.
Her footsteps were slow and agonizing, and she was trying hard to keep up with my brisk pace. I have to get her to go home as fast as possible. Seeing her like this isn't helping. The next train station is just less than a block away.
"You don't have to do this to me, you know," she said faintly. "You were never mean. You said you were never gonna hurt me."
"The next train leaves in 15 minutes. We have to get to the next train station on time, otherwise you're gonna have to wait for another half an hour. And you know very well I can't stay with you," I answered, diverting the conversation from what she said last.
I walked even faster, and she struggled to keep pace. I glanced at her one more time, and even in the heavy rain I can see tears streaking down her face. I resisted the urge to sweep her in an embrace and tell her that yes, I miss her so badly, so I focused on getting to the next train station as fast as I can.
When we got there she slumped to one of the benches like she has been waiting to do so for the longest time. I know she's tired, I can see it in her eyes. Now that I was looking, the areas around her eyes were darker, she was thinner, and her complexion a lot paler than I last remember.
"You can at least listen to what I came over to tell you," she begged in a child-like voice. "It's not gonna take more than five minutes, I promise."
"Stop it, okay?! It's not gonna work. We can't go back to how it used to be. I don't feel sorry for you. I don't miss you. And I don't love you anymore, I never really did!," I shouted loud enough for some people to look our way.
Her eyes darted around. It must've embarrassed her to see some people whispering while looking our way. I knew they were talking about us.
She managed a faint smile. "That's fine," she said. "I never asked you for anything, anyway. If everything was a lie to you, then.... I hope you never do it to the next girl you meet. Because it hurts more than you'll ever know." She reached her hand out in an effort to squeeze my hand, but I jerked away even before she can do anything. I frowned and looked at her with that incredulous look on my face, as if she was a stranger I just met. She managed a smile. "Goodbye."
"Which part of what I said did you not understand? I DON'T FEEL SORRY FOR YOU. I DON'T MISS YOU. AND I-DON'T-LOVE-YOU-ANYMORE!" I said again, this time almost feeling what I was saying.
She nodded. Tears were streaming down her face again. She slowly walked to the platform and onto the train. I pretended like I wasn't looking her way, but the truth is, I was.
That was the last I saw of her. Exactly two weeks after that rainy afternoon that she came to me and I brought her to the train station, I received an email from her mother in Atlanta. I can't believe what I read. There were no word to express what I felt right at that moment, just tears for the pain I felt. The email read:
"Dear Luke,
Our dear Mandy has returned to the loving arms of God. Burial rites will be on Sunday, at 3:00PM at St. John the Baptist Cemetery. She didn't want me to tell you about this, but I thought that you should know. You were the last person she mentioned to me before she passed away. "Don't tell Luke," that's what she said on her deathbed. "Let me be a memory to him, one that he will forget in time, because that is what he made clear to me."
Mandy was born with Huntington's Disease, but her symptoms didn't appear until recently. She has stopped recognizing some family members, and there were times in the hospital when she would look at me with a blank stare in her eyes, trying to remember who I was. But you, Luke, was the one she never forget. She came home one day, frail and dripping wet. When I asked her where she has been she told me, "I have stopped being someone's dream, Mom." At first I didn't understand, but I am guessing it must've been you.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Stenton"
I knew all too well what Mrs. Stenton was saying. I read the email over and over again, hoping to see some catch phrase somewhere that says this was all a joke. It can't be! She never said goodbye to me, she never said anything to me. Maybe this was her way of getting back at me for leaving her in the train station... Of course, I know Mrs. Stenton wouldn't make light of anything, and especially not about her daughter's death.
It pains me to think that on the last days of Mandy's life the last words she heard from me were "I DON'T FEEL SORRY FOR YOU. I DON'T MISS YOU. AND I-DON'T-LOVE-YOU-ANYMORE!" She didn't deserve it, not after how much all that she gave to me -- time, effort, attention. And I was just the jerk who was afraid to love her when I had the chance, thinking she would always be there.
;Moira Natalja
It had been raining for more than a week, so much rain it made everyday seemed so restless and gloomy. She called and said she was coming up. It was the third time she came up to see me that week. I carried her excuse of why she came all the way here and went to meet her at the nearby seven-eleven. She was standing there alone, carrying her red umbrella. Her friend had dropped her off. It was raining and she was shivering. She looked weak and fragile in the harsh rain, wearing not enough to keep her warm.
I walked up to her and said, "You shouldn't come see me anymore," and stuff like how we shouldn't be together.
She said, "I miss you."
I told her coldly, "Lets go, I'll take you home."
She did not open up her umbrella, I knew she wanted to share mine.
I said, "Open up your umbrella, let's go."
Unwillingly, she opened up her umbrella and walked with me to the car. She said she hadn't eat lunch or dinner and asked if we could stop at some place to eat.
Right away I answered with a stoned heart, "No!"
Disappointed, she asked me to take her to the train station, she said she would take the train back home. Maybe it was the rain, all the trains were full of people with umbrellas and suit cases who were eager to get home, not caring about who just passed by. We waited and waited, she looked at me innocently. Being together for so long, of course I knew what she meant. I understand how she must have felt when she came all the way here in this kind of weather and I treated her like this. With her soft eyes staring at me, I felt guilt and wanted to let her stay for the night.
But reality struck again, I said to her coldly, "Let's go try the other train station."
She walked slowly behind me until we reached the next train station -- not uttering a word, just feeling the cold rain drop. Once in a while I would glance at her walking behind me. Memories of our walks in the rain flashed before my eyes. Us giggling, hands entwined, not minding the harsh rain or the strong wind blowing. I always enjoyed our walks in the rain because by the time we reach her place or mine, we would be soaking wet, and we don't have any choice but to spend a warm night together in front of the fireplace. Bouts of passionate love-making would ensue, nights of wild and passionate and slow and rough love-making that would linger in my mind for days. But not now. Not anymore, I told myself.
Her footsteps were slow and agonizing, and she was trying hard to keep up with my brisk pace. I have to get her to go home as fast as possible. Seeing her like this isn't helping. The next train station is just less than a block away.
"You don't have to do this to me, you know," she said faintly. "You were never mean. You said you were never gonna hurt me."
"The next train leaves in 15 minutes. We have to get to the next train station on time, otherwise you're gonna have to wait for another half an hour. And you know very well I can't stay with you," I answered, diverting the conversation from what she said last.
I walked even faster, and she struggled to keep pace. I glanced at her one more time, and even in the heavy rain I can see tears streaking down her face. I resisted the urge to sweep her in an embrace and tell her that yes, I miss her so badly, so I focused on getting to the next train station as fast as I can.
When we got there she slumped to one of the benches like she has been waiting to do so for the longest time. I know she's tired, I can see it in her eyes. Now that I was looking, the areas around her eyes were darker, she was thinner, and her complexion a lot paler than I last remember.
"You can at least listen to what I came over to tell you," she begged in a child-like voice. "It's not gonna take more than five minutes, I promise."
"Stop it, okay?! It's not gonna work. We can't go back to how it used to be. I don't feel sorry for you. I don't miss you. And I don't love you anymore, I never really did!," I shouted loud enough for some people to look our way.
Her eyes darted around. It must've embarrassed her to see some people whispering while looking our way. I knew they were talking about us.
She managed a faint smile. "That's fine," she said. "I never asked you for anything, anyway. If everything was a lie to you, then.... I hope you never do it to the next girl you meet. Because it hurts more than you'll ever know." She reached her hand out in an effort to squeeze my hand, but I jerked away even before she can do anything. I frowned and looked at her with that incredulous look on my face, as if she was a stranger I just met. She managed a smile. "Goodbye."
"Which part of what I said did you not understand? I DON'T FEEL SORRY FOR YOU. I DON'T MISS YOU. AND I-DON'T-LOVE-YOU-ANYMORE!" I said again, this time almost feeling what I was saying.
She nodded. Tears were streaming down her face again. She slowly walked to the platform and onto the train. I pretended like I wasn't looking her way, but the truth is, I was.
That was the last I saw of her. Exactly two weeks after that rainy afternoon that she came to me and I brought her to the train station, I received an email from her mother in Atlanta. I can't believe what I read. There were no word to express what I felt right at that moment, just tears for the pain I felt. The email read:
"Dear Luke,
Our dear Mandy has returned to the loving arms of God. Burial rites will be on Sunday, at 3:00PM at St. John the Baptist Cemetery. She didn't want me to tell you about this, but I thought that you should know. You were the last person she mentioned to me before she passed away. "Don't tell Luke," that's what she said on her deathbed. "Let me be a memory to him, one that he will forget in time, because that is what he made clear to me."
Mandy was born with Huntington's Disease, but her symptoms didn't appear until recently. She has stopped recognizing some family members, and there were times in the hospital when she would look at me with a blank stare in her eyes, trying to remember who I was. But you, Luke, was the one she never forget. She came home one day, frail and dripping wet. When I asked her where she has been she told me, "I have stopped being someone's dream, Mom." At first I didn't understand, but I am guessing it must've been you.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Stenton"
I knew all too well what Mrs. Stenton was saying. I read the email over and over again, hoping to see some catch phrase somewhere that says this was all a joke. It can't be! She never said goodbye to me, she never said anything to me. Maybe this was her way of getting back at me for leaving her in the train station... Of course, I know Mrs. Stenton wouldn't make light of anything, and especially not about her daughter's death.
It pains me to think that on the last days of Mandy's life the last words she heard from me were "I DON'T FEEL SORRY FOR YOU. I DON'T MISS YOU. AND I-DON'T-LOVE-YOU-ANYMORE!" She didn't deserve it, not after how much all that she gave to me -- time, effort, attention. And I was just the jerk who was afraid to love her when I had the chance, thinking she would always be there.
;Moira Natalja
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