Forgive Me

Complicated Emotions

She kept fidgeting with the ring, as if leaving it clinging to her finger was an act of self-sabotage.

-1/29/1920

To truly understand the following events, I am going to take you past the world of my family and into the life of a new and not yet understood one: David Holly's.

Detective Holly's time was spent almost exclusively at his crumbling office on 48 Lewis Street, near the splendid ocean and, against all odds, still standing. That gloomy day in late January, David was sitting at the oak desk-- one with an excessive amount of scratch marks along the surface-- staring up at the ceiling.

The handsome man was nearing his forties and his hair was slowly losing its color. He liked to imagine his complexion would always remain as lovely as it had a young man; however, he could tell just by the way his hands trembled and his head hung, the enemy of Age was soon to be upon him.

Since the autumn of 1908, David had worked as the head detective for the police department just down the road and had nothing to show for it. Of all the murders he had prevented and men he had caught, not once had he felt some sense of satisfaction. It wasn't so much he disliked his job—in fact, he would go so far to say he adored the action and mischief that came with it—but that it seemed a poor excuse for him to feel young again.

Too, did David feel the presence of Death waiting at his side every morning he struggled out of bed. And every night when he lay awake, counting the victims.

When he had been recruited, he never imagined what the barrel of a gun would feel like on his tongue.

He wondered where the ratty reporter was and found himself worrying.

Marcus was young—only in his twenties—but as unattractive as the skin peelings of a dirty heel. He spent many of his work days sitting there, scratching at his arms and scribbling something illiterate, avoiding his duties where no one could touch him. David wondered why he still allowed him to stay; every time Marcus opened his mouth, he wanted to rip out his tongue.

They had met many years before in April of 1914; that evening, he had asked David for shelter from an angry coworker who had vowed to destroy him before the sun came up. Ever since then, it was as if Marcus was using him as a shield against his consequences and become friends with many of the detective’s acquaintances.

How they could stand each other’s company was a mystery and one of the only David could not solve. Their personalities butted heads—the detective's bold, aggressive bark and Marcus’s timid, stand-offish yowl—and they couldn't resolve any of their differences. Still, their relationship reminded him of a father and son: sharing conflicting ideas but loving each other anyways.

He launched himself out of the velvet armchair and to his feet, taking no chance of melting into his sorrow and continuing his leave. His pride was damaged enough to set him in a hot-headed mood. He swore under his breath that if Marcus came in this late and asked to stay, all the aggression would be fueled into one nasty punch.

The door-- the bloody thing made such a horrible noise when opened-- creaked from its hinges and cracked under the pressure of the doorknob. David whirled around, preparing his voice for a word or two with the ratty reporter, when he was cut short. How could he continue to rile his angry beast when not Marcus but Becky Rim came through the door?

Becky was a woman difficult to turn away from. She had this aura about her that took you by the wrist and pulled you inside her pink heart. Her faded walnut hair was pulled back into a neat, sensible bun and her delicate fingers twiddled against her chest. Her skin was blotted with the marks of the sun and her large, swaying hips tottered from side to side. Those eyes were daring and adventurous-- ready to plunge into the river of danger.

Long before she became a journalist for the paper and was still working in the police force, she might have worn something as ridiculous as combat boots and vests. But now, with the lurking, ever-waiting crime no longer hanging above her head, something as plain as this blue-checkered dress suited her.

She pushed up the round glasses that always managed to find their way down her nose and David could not help but stare at her left fingers. There it was: the object he was dreading to see. That ring, the simple ring, was something that should have become numb years ago, but he still felt its presence in the room. He was terrified of it; if he made the slightest mistake, that same ring would clench his throat in its jaws and bite down hard.

It was the only thing keeping him from running to Becky Rim and pinning her against the wall with his kiss.

"Becky!" he grinned, ignoring the painful sting of the ring's glare on his chest. "It's so good to see you!"

She responded with her own, melting grin. Just being in the presence of those innocent lips made his legs tremble.

"Hello, David," she said in a husk of a whisper. Timidity had never been an issue for her when in the force, but now her shyness had overtaken her. Or, and this was David's theory, it was her loveless marriage. "Were you just on your way out?"

"Yes," he smiled. "You caught me in my good mood.”

What a lie. Only for her.

"What can I do for you? And on such a lovely afternoon?"

"Well, if you are up for it," her face flushed with color as the words sprang from her mouth, "why don't you come to the cafe with me? If it means any trouble for you, I would not mind if you refused, but I was just hoping-"

"Yes, I will come."

Before you go telling the detective it is rude to interrupt a speaking woman like this, keep her previous visit in mind. She had spoken so long of how he might refuse, she convinced herself he had shrieked at her to leave him be.

So be for the timid Becky, who despised hearing the shyness in her voice when she knew it could come roaring.

Oh, how she absolutely loathed herself.

For weeks after I had taken up residence with Abigail, I had been searching for work. Lars had already found something suited to his interests at the textile industry with a measly pay of sixty cents per hour but enough to provide for the family. I, on the other hand, had been rejected from everything I attempted. Perhaps it was due to prejudice against my nationality, s*x, or religion but no employer had accepted my application.

This had made me particularly gloomy the day Becky and David decided to visit the cafe by our apartment complex and ready for a long conversation with Lars.

"You cut the cloth at the factory, don't you?” I asked him, picking at half an orange we had brought from home. We couldn't afford anything at the café if we wanted to eat the next week.

He nodded his head but didn't say anything. Juice dribbled down his chin and he continued to devour his half like a wolf, puncturing the soft skin with his teeth and watching it pop.

Do they have any openings for women there?”

Lars thought about it for a moment then shrugged. “We have about a thousand and a half male workers and maybe two hundred less women. There's a lot of spots open, yeah, but are you sure you want to go into the textile industry? I work almost sixty hours a week. I barely get to see you as it is. Why can't you just let me provide?”

"Your salary isn't going to pay for three adults and four children, Lars. You could barely live off that alone.”

“Then try something different, something that pays more. Why not go to school? Get a degree? Go into teaching?”

“You know very well I can't afford that.”

“Cashiering? Ten a week.”

“For men,” I muttered.

He chose to ignore my comment and continued. “Look, I don’t think you'll have a chance of getting a job with a high enough salary if you don’t go to school. Otherwise, we’ll be scraping by.”

“What if I become a governess? Take care of other children?”

“That could work if you find a wealthy enough family. Search around, I'm sure you'll find someone.”

I smiled and brought his rough hand into mine, comforted by the warmth. “I'm sorry about all this complaining,” I apologized. “I thought the conditions would be better here but, if anything, it's worse. At least I had a job in Sicily.”

“The first week of something new is always difficult. Just wait; I'm sure things will improve. I will take care of you.”

I smiled. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

His dull eyes twinkled, like a star behind a thundercloud, and I could feel his pulse rising in his wrist. “Missy,” he started, lips beginning to quiver, “I-“

From the double doors leading out of the café came David and Becky, interrupting Lars when I quietly gasped.

“That's him,” I whispered. “The one I told you about.”

My heart clenched in my chest and my fingers twitched watching Holly take his seat next to another woman. My mind erupted with questions and my fists burled underneath the table. Who was she?

“What, the detective who almost killed those two men? Yeah, he looks the type.”

I shot him a playful glare and watched the man and woman conversing quietly, staring deep into each other's eyes. “What do you think of him?” I asked.

“Well, anyone who abuses his power to harm civilians is not amazing in my book,” he sighed, “but you were right: he's a handsome guy.”

“I've never formally introduced myself. Should I go over there?”

“No! You really want to have a conversation with the guy who probably destroyed someone's life? Who constantly uses violence to get what he wants?”

My annoyance sealed my lips shut and I only nodded.

Lars shook his head in disbelief and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Don't go over there. Please.”

If his expression had been any more intense, my eyes might have swollen and popped, like bubble gum. The heavy weight of the sharp, antagonizing anxiety in my chest brought me back to my raw youth: when the air was thick with nightmares.

Another flat note to be sung and another imperfection to fix.

Another day to be wasted and another death to forget.

I wondered if the detective knew what it was like to be a prisoner of your own mind—to be stuck on a cobweb weaved from your many regrets. Did he know what it was like to hover over yourself and watch your body make mistakes without you? Did he know what it was like to feel Death on his tongue?

Stumbling through life

Losing count of the days left

Knowing you will never change

Lying to yourself

Tumbling down a pit

Seeing things that aren't there

Ignoring reality

Wondering when you will hit the ground

Falling into bad habits

Asking yourself whether you truly matter

Giving up.

I gazed into the icy eyes of David Holly.

Despair danced in his pupil.