The Daily Dime: Truer Than Fiction

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“Don't worry, I'll call you as soon as I get there,” she said. I could tell as soon as the words left her mouth that it was an empty promise. A salve to her conscience, complete disregard for mine.

“Please do,” I said. I could feel the ball in my throat, the sting in my eyes. She hugged me again. I hugged back. Maybe a little too long and a little too hard. “I love you so much,” I whispered into her ear.

“I love you too,” she said back. We released, and I looked at her. Despite all the crap she had sent herself through, she still looked beautiful, like Egyptian royalty.

“I'll miss you, but I think this is better for you,” I said. She nodded then she said that she had to leave. I said goodbye and walked to my car.

I sat in my car in the church parking lot. One of the last times I'd ever go to church coincidentally, though this drama had nothing to do with attendance.

I sat in my car, feeling empty. Feeling that though there were nothing left, it would all be spilled out. I fought so hard to keep the tears in, but it was a fight worth losing.

I didn't want to be in a car in the parking lot at church bawling, so I left. I couldn't go to the house yet. I couldn't let my family see me as I was: an emotional wreck on the verge of meltdown. So I drove. I drove for 30 minutes, and I screamed, and I cursed, and I fought. For 30 minutes I refused to accept the truth reality had whispered in my ear. “Nevermore.”

My defenses cracked, and I cried. I cried and I couldn't stop. I turned on the radio and heard REM's “Everybody Hurts.” We sang, and I cried.

I finally got home, and there was mom, waiting. She asked what had happened and I told her exactly how I felt.

How much I had loved the girl, and for no good reason. I just loved her with an ineffable expression, something that, the more I tried to define it, the less accurate it would become. I just wanted her to be loved, and I wanted to be the one doing the loving.

I told her that no matter how far she strayed, I was always praying for her. When she left me for a guy who has yet to provide one good reason why he should live, I prayed for her. I prayed she wake up to the shit this bastard put her through.

When she got addicted to drugs, I prayed for her freedom.

When she was arrested, I prayed for her reform.

When I heard nothing, I prayed for everything.

I told my mom about how much I'd prayed, and the few times I'd cried, and now my prayers are being answered, but she's going away.

“It isn't fair,” I said. “I held out so much hope for her, and offered so many prayers, yet I feel like I'm being gypped, and I know I shouldn't. I should just be happy for her, and I am, but I... I don't know. I just feel like crap.”

“You're happy for her, but sad for you, right?” I nodded, and then I started to cry... again. And then mom did what mom's do best: she hugged me and comforted me. Told me that there weren't any words that could make me feel better, but to take comfort in the fact that she hurts with me.

Mom cried with me.