The Last True Love Story

I really like this piece. Its actually one of my favorites that I've posted on this blog. I think what i fancy the most is the dual layers it works in. There is a few different lens' you can read this through, most of it depending on where you fall on the spiritual spectrum. I would like to say -as always- this is a work of fiction, and although those of you who know me well, will see a lot of truth to this story in certain aspects, it is by and large purely fictional. I don't want to get too detailed about the spiritual aspect of the story because if i reveal too much about it, i fear it will potentially alter your reading. There are certain techniques at play that i try and cater too, all of which depend greatly on the readers perception of the world (i attempted to write a story that could be read on either side of this spectrum). A few things to think about as you read: the title is meant to be much more then what it merely suggests, almost everything important in this piece is dual layered, finally please respond and just give me what you 'think' the story is about and what it is trying to portray. Alas, here it is, i hope you enjoy.

The Last True Love Story
By J.L. Hickey

Tears stained her red cheeks with rivers of salt. We stood together for the last time outside of my parent’s house in front of her heavily rusted grey le saber Buick. It was late; a fresh layer of snow covered the road. Her watery eyes glistened with the glare of the street lights. These cold city streets never looked as beautiful as they did within the reflection of her eyes. That night marked the last night I was to ever truly feel alive. She kissed me there for the last time. Her lip quivered as we touched. She spoke to me with her soft broken voice.

“This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. But I have to do it.”

That’s what she said, that’s it… she had to do it. I’m sure the pain I felt that night could be felt across the world. My stomach knotted, my knees were weak. I felt as if I was dying, literally.

The soft snow fell onto my shoulders as I watched her turn off my road for the last time. I thought this may have been an attempt of God to console one of his lost children. His way of holding me when I needed it the most. When I walked back alone to the side door of my house I remember looking back and seeing my lonely footprints behind me. I thought of the poem that was read at my parents funereal, about how in our darkest times there’s only one set of footprints. How that man looks at God and asks him why he was not their walking beside him during his time of need. God replies that he was there, that those were his footprints carrying him. I wanted to smile, but then I remembered, I don’t believe in God.

If you measure life by moments of happiness, then that was the night I died. Those were the lasts breaths I would ever breathe worth the effort inhaling and exhaling. I had felt too much pain already in my young life. If you think God has a plan for us all, and that this heartache only makes you stronger, then you have lived a sheltered life, because that’s bullshit.

That snow on my shoulder melted as quickly as my faith did so many years ago.

When I die, and if I am proved wrong about this God character, and I get the chance to stare God in the face during my so called judgment, I’m going to let my fists do the talking for me. I’ll easily go to hell for the chance to kick his elitist ass.

Years later I am nothing. I work a shit end job. I pay my bills and my taxes. I spend my nights alone drinking. I spend the day alone working. It’s snowing out on this particular night that I stumble into my old church. It’s been a long time since I’ve stepped foot into this or any church. I don’t even know its Christmas Eve when I take a seat in the backroom. No one notices me sitting there, or the grudge that I hold tightly in my clenched fist.

I see her.

Twenty some years later, and it feels like yesterday. She’s only two pews in front of me. She is beautiful, angelic even. A small child is sitting on her lap staring at me. He’s resting his young chubby face on her shoulder. She is with her husband, who I dare not look at. The child has her eyes; I notice this and cry silently. The boy looks up at me and with his rosy red cheeks he faintly smiles. Across his neck is a cross and chain that lays over his navy blue tie. He is happy, she is happy, they are happy, I am lost.

I walk out soon after. I cry harder as I walk away in the snowy night sky. I leave behind the loneliest set of footprints any man has ever walked. I prayed to God to carry me home that night. Then I remembered, I don’t believe in God.