To Forgive Divine

She stands above him, a sentinel waiting, and patient to the very end. Age and infirmity have mutated his once brawny form into a frail, withered shadow of his former self. His breathing, weakened, stagnant, slowed by the dropper that she places to his tongue. A necessity, the doctors claim. Sublingual morphine drops.

“This must be our secret. If others know they will not understand.”

The words sear through her memory like a branding iron. In younger days, she looked up to him, her protector, soaking up her pain from the beatings at home. Shielding her from the cruelty of her own existence. Easing his own distress with her, their bond, her slavery to him was forged.

“Dear God, don’t stop. That is so beautiful honey.”

She attempted to break free from the bond at fourteen. She told the only other man that was strong enough (or so she thought) to free her from this sickening hell. As the words were uttered, she realized the demons had him as well, and she was powerless.

“He never lied to me, but you have. I believe him.”

She looks silently at the clock, as she tucks his coverlet around his wasted body. Alone she waits for another hour. Another round of escape for him, as she watches his chest rise and fall, and another eternity for her. She recalls vividly the feel of his hand on her shoulder, turning her, manipulating her to his will. Here and now, the tide has turned. He is the helpless one, and she with the power of life or death, she contemplates.

Three days after her father’s passing, he came at her again. Standing up to touch her once more, he was shocked at her denial, her liberated moment. She stood her ground, forbidding him entrance to his only outlet. He sat, defeated, but for one last blow.

“I’m proud of you.”

Her anger builds at this memory, like a volcano threatening, she sees his illness. She recognizes her strength in this moment. His frailty and weakness, and so many sins against her, he lies there, helpless to her will. She looks at the Morphine bottle.

“Sublingual, it goes straight to the bloodstream.”

She stands, bottle in hand. Can she forgive this man, this abomination to humanity? Can she let go of all the moments of agony, of guilt at the touch of ANY man? Can she put aside the trauma she will experience in intimate moments, at the flashback memories of his perverse desires? She touches his lips, as his eyes open for one brief moment. He looks at her, the knowledge of what she could, and possibly should do in his eyes. He fears the powerless state he is in at this moment. She bends, and after a moment, as his eyes begin to fade, and again the breathing slows, she whispers.

“I forgive you.”

Pressing the bottle in his cold, withered hand, she walks out the door.