Too Late

For a saturday night, it was ridiculously quiet. The luminous light flickered repeatedly until the street was plunged into an natural darkness. The moment remained for seconds, interrupted by the sound of a woman's tumultuous breath and body disturbing the silent street.

It was cold but the strenuous attempts she had made to reach this still corner had resulted in a rosy flush upon her face and the subsequent sheathing of her coat. She lit a fag and breathed in slowly. Inhale. Exhale.

The world seemed faster now this figure had appeared. She retrieved her phone from the purse she was clutching and carefully tapped a number in. The ringing reverberated chillingly and she swung round, almost scared, strangely expectant. There was no answer and her face registered no expression.

She was absorbed by the passivity of the street and now sat on the curb, legs apart, almost like an abandoned doll.

Not until this point had I felt the slightest guilt about standing this woman up, yet she was just a girl. Still my own anger transcending any sympathy I might have had towards her and did not extend to the point where I would be in any way willing to rescue her.

You could say this girl was my daughter. But she was no such thing. No blood relation. Perhaps we had been close once, although this seems so vague and disturbing a thought that I cannot possibly entertain it. I was her step father. That was a long time ago now. I made my mistakes; she made hers.

I had not seen her for over seven years and I could see the change right down to the bone. Her eyes were sunken, her cheeks hollow, the skin across her bony chest taught and pale. The dress she wore, though loose, exaggerated her tinyness.

Perhaps it was the drugs. Those this explanation would mean this was my fault. If you're looking for an excuse right now, there is very little I can provide you with. It was a family business, an investment for the future.

Little did I know about the future awaiting that girl. Maine. Michigan. Chicago. New Hampshire. The list went on. The sightings of her piling up. She was untraceable week to week and yet assurances came in clusters that she was still alive. Not well.

Seven years. Seven long years. The death of her mother. The suicide of her sister. My prosecution. And now here she is, out of the blue, after an abrupt phone call asking me to meet her.

I could slap her or spit on her for the pain she has caused everyone around her. But she seems so diminuative, so innocent.

I dial her number and she answers almost immediately:

"I can't meet you" I say matter of factly.

"Why? Please. I'm so sorry. Please Dad" I cringe as she calls me that.

"No. You're too late. Maybe before, before they sent me down Virginia." Saying her name makes it all the more real. I can feel tears descending the traverse of my face.

"I...I...ok" She put the telephone down and stared into the puddle at her foot.

I closed the window from where I had been watching her and collapsed on the bed.

Fuck you, I thought.