I’m so Sorry…

TRIGGER WARNING!!

This story contains themes of sexual abuse, miscarriage, and grief. Reader’s discretion advised.

I’m so Sorry

It’s two in the morning, the sky is clear and as black as the bottom of the Mariana Trench. A sliver of moon shines, trying its best to cut through the night. 

She awakens screaming again. Usually, the scream dies in her throat when her eyes open, and the real world comes flooding back, but tonight is another matter. The scream doesn't die but turns into sobs that wrack her body.

A single floor lamp stands lit at the end of her bed. It protects her from the darkness of the night like a silent Roman sentinel. It doesn’t see her turn her head, weeping into her pillow. No one does. Countless tears have soaked into her pillows over the years.

Time heals all wounds? Bullshit.

When her tears abate and her trembling slows, she lies in the silence of the night, trying to catch her breath. Between the sobbing and the asthma, it’s difficult, and she gropes at her side looking for her little grey inhaler. Finding it, she takes a pull and inhales deeply. Air fills her lungs, leaving that bitter medicine taste on her tongue. Finally, she can breathe.

Tears still stain her cheeks as she gets her bearings and tries to rise to a sitting position. It isn't easy. Every night, there are bad dreams, but tonight was a special torture. Her whole body screams with pain, both phantom and authentic. 

She gathers her ashtray and her smokes, hands trembling so badly she drops the cigarette she selected from the pack. Selected? No, more autopilot than anything. She jams the dart between her lips and flicks her lighter once… twice… three times. Finally, the tiny flame leaps up, and she touches it to the tip of the cigarette.

She drags deeply on it before inhaling, holding the smoke in before slowly releasing it into the air. The smoke billows from her mouth and dissipates, leaving only that familiar smell that only a smoker can appreciate.

She is far from calm, but she looks around her room, taking small comfort in the familiarity of her space. Her curtains are open just a little, and the fingernail moon seems to wink at her. She pulls again on her smoke, staring back at that moon, a light in the blackness of the night.

“I’m so sorry…” she whispers.

She begins to cry again, dropping her chin to her chest. Tears fall freely onto her nightshirt. Her cigarette burns slowly as horrible images play behind her eyelids, memories that she does not want but that insist on sticking to her like shit to a lint blanket. Beatings. Choking. Bound so tightly that she cannot move. A child shattered by the twisted whims of one she should have been able to trust.

How long she cries, she doesn’t know, but when her eyes open, her smoke is nearly dead between her fingers. She can feel the heat from its tiny ember and quickly crushes it out in her ashtray.

Sleep won't return to her tonight, so she opens her side table drawer and reaches in for her journal. It’s a simple notebook containing three-ring paper, bound by the spiral wire that runs along its spine. There is a blue pen in the spiral, and she removes it, opening the book to a clean page.

“I’m so sorry,” she writes. The blue ink left on the page is shaped with shaky lines due to her still trembling hands, but she continues to write.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,”

Over and over again, these simple words flow from her pen. It’s almost like a petulant child writing lines for some transgression in the classroom. Over and over until the page is nearly full. She pauses for an instant, looking at the page as though for the first time. It’s tear-stained, and the ink has run a little in the places her tears have fallen onto the page.

A deep sigh, seemingly from the depths of her soul, falls from her lips as she drops the open notebook next to her pillow. She then collapses back onto her pillow, turning onto her side to face the open notebook.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers as she stares both at the book and right through it. God, she would give anything for sleep. Anything for the nightmares to give her a moment's peace. Anything to go back and try to undo the damage that was done to her. Anything to bring him back. It’s been twenty-eight years, and the pain of his loss is still as fresh as the day it happened.

She stares at that notebook, and soon her eyes grow heavy.

“Why do you cry?” a tiny voice asks.

She startles and blinks, looking for the source of this voice. Was it the wee lad from downstairs? It couldn't be; his momma put him to bed hours ago. Her eyes finally focus, and the spiral notebook is gone. 

In its place sits a small child of about four or five. Small in stature and wearing an Iron Man tee shirt and sweat pants, with his tiny hands folded politely in his lap. Light brown shaggy hair hangs almost to hazel blue eyes. They are bright and inquisitive as he looks down on her.

Her breath catches in her throat as she looks upon this little guy. Her mouth hangs open as if to ask him where he came from, but no sound comes. She can only stare in shock at the little stranger seated where her notebook was. 

“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” he says, his voice innocent and sincere, “I heard you crying and climbed in here with you. But why are you so sad?”

She says nothing for a long moment as her brain works hard to reconcile the boy’s presence. There was no one else here except the young lady downstairs with her son, and both of them were sleeping soundly.

The boy’s innocent question hangs in the air between the two of them, as she looks into his eyes. They look familiar. But why? Where did he come from? He looks back at her with a tiny smile on his little face. 

“I… I was…” she stammers, tears still standing on her cheeks, “I was crying because I had a bad dream.”

“Oh no,” the boy replies, his eyes growing large, “were there monsters? I hate monsters.”

“There are always monsters in my dreams,” she whispers, “who are you? You’re far too young to be out at this hour. Where did you come from?”

The little fella giggles; the sound is almost musical, like tiny bells. He takes her hand in his. 

“I told you, I heard you crying. I wanted to make sure you’re ok.” 

She looks at this little boy, sitting cross-legged on her bed like he’s been there his whole life. Confusion stampedes through her brain like bulls through the streets of Pamplona. Who is he? Where did he come from? His eyes… 

“Do you have a name? How old are you? You shouldn’t be here. Where are your parents?” She asks all those questions seemingly at once, words flowing like water through a flood gate. 

The youngster looks into her eyes, and a thoughtful expression passes over his face. He moves a little closer to her, still holding her hand.

“Ummm… My name is Andrew. I don’t really live anywhere, but I watch things. I watch you all the time, mostly. You’re sad a lot, so here I am.”

The blood drains from her face, her breath catches in her throat. Andrew? That's not possible… is it?

“Your name is… Andrew?” The words come out in a whisper, as if she has to work with all her might to get them out. Suddenly, she feels dizzy, so dizzy with emotion.

“I was… I had… I mean, almost…how?” 

She begins to cry again, but she can't tear her eyes away from the little boy. Tears fall freely as she tries to choke back the sobs welling up in her. She feels as though she might explode.

The little boy wipes away her tears with a tiny hand, all the while looking back into her watery eyes. He smiles that little smile again. 

“Yes, my name is Andrew Micheal, you should know that, but… you’ve never seen me. They told me before I came to you tonight that I should be careful with my words, but I had to come.”

She can’t speak; her head is a whirlwind of thoughts. This can’t be possible, but yet this little boy shows up out of nowhere. She begins to tremble, feeling panic start to well up in her tummy. Is she going crazy? 

Andrew releases her trembling hand and places his hands on either side of her head. He cocks his head to the left a little bit as if in thought. His hands are soft and cool. All at once, she feels the panic and sadness drain from her. Her world, inside and out, is quiet. Serene. Like a pond on a spring morning. 

“That's better,” he says with a smile.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“You’ve never seen me, but I’ve been watching you for a long time,” Andrew continues, “They said I could finally come see you for a little while.”

“Who did?” she asks.

“The angels,” he replies as if it’s the most normal answer in the world.

“The… angels?” 

“Yeah, the angels,” he smiles at her, “I asked them if I could finally come see you, and they allowed it. I wanted to help you.”

“So, you’re… my Andrew?” she asks the boy. She knows it shouldn’t be possible and yet… his eyes. They’re hers. 

“Yes, mommy.”

“But that’s impossible. I lost you when I was fourteen years old!”

“I know, mommy, but when I woke up with the angels, I looked like this. They told me you gave me a name and your eyes.”

She reaches out to touch Andrew’s cheek. He doesn’t shrink back.

“I know that monsters follow you around every day, Mommy. I know how sad you are, too.”

“I’m sad because I lost you!” she says through fresh sobs, “I couldn’t protect you! I’m so so sorry! I wish every day that you could be here with me.”

The boy takes her hand again and squeezes it in his two wee ones.

“It wasn’t your fault, mommy,” he replies, his voice quiet and soothing, “You were only little then, too. Someone should have been protecting you.”

He reaches for her with open arms, then wraps them around her neck in an embrace, and her arms hold him tight. They stay like that for a long moment before Andrew looks her in her eyes again.

“You have carried me around with you with so much sadness and guilt. I don’t know how to help make it go away, Mommy, but the angels told me I couldn’t be with you back then. It was not your fault.”

“Who are the angels to decide that?” she snaps, a little harsher than she means to.

“I dunno, Mommy, but they are angels. I’m really sorry that I couldn't be here with you, but I watch you every day, and the angels finally let me come see you.”

“One of the things I’ve learned is that there is so much in this world that is beyond people's control. Grown-ups are bad people, and sometimes they hurt anyone they can because it makes them feel big and strong.”

“I want you to know, Mommy, that I’m always here, right over your shoulder. Even though I can’t take away the sadness or fear you feel when the world gets dark and quiet, I’m always with you.”

She listens to the little boy talking with words beyond his years, her hand still held in his. “But, I feel like I failed you,” she says sadly.

“No, mommy, you didn’t fail me. It wasn’t the time for me to be born. That’s what they told me. But I get to see you every day. I’m always with you and my sisters, too.”

“I have a question, though,” he says, suddenly changing the subject.

“What is it? Anything…” she replies.

“I think I have to go soon,” he continues, “could we… cuddle?”

His face is hopeful, and he smiles brightly. She smiles back at him, a first since she opened her eyes tonight. She takes his small form in her arms, and Mommy and son lie together like a pair of spoons. She holds him so close.

“I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you, Andrew, “ she whispers.

The world goes quiet as she drifts off into a dreamless sleep, content in the moment, holding her son for the first time.

When she awakes, the sun is shining, and a robin is singing outside her window. She stretches and yawns, and the night before comes back to her like a wave. She looks to her left, and there lies the notebook with the page of apologies she wrote in her sadness. There are tear stains in the ink.

Sitting on the notebook is a silver chain and a pendant. She picks it up and holds it to the morning light. There is an inscription on both sides.

“No more sorries”

“I love you, mommy - A.M.C.”

A single tear falls from her eye as she clutches the pendant to her heart.

The robin continues singing their morning song.