Promises

How Long Will These Memories Last? by layla

There are times when he’d stand in front of the mirror,

Staring and resenting his own figure in the reflection.

He’d look down and examine his hands,

Hands that are no longer kept safe in hers.

He’d study his eyes, triggering a foggy memory;

She’s crying, an ongoing stream of tears falling.

Mascara stains her rosy cheeks to a carbon-black stream.

In a panic, his mind wanders.

She's hurt.

Is this your fault?

Say something funny- no, crying can be good.

Hold her in your arms, consume her muffled despair,

Share and absorb her headache.

What’s hers is yours after all.

He’d look down at his wrist where a drawing of hers is now tattooed.

He’d raise and observe his pinky that once entwined with hers,

When they were bound together by promise- a silly, childish promise.

Him and her- like that tattoo, for an eternity.

Foolish, young, naive.

the tattoo would yell at him.

But has he ever truly grown out of the promise when those memories were still held?

Consequences by Evan Miller

“I will always think of you…”

A song dances in my head, the tune all too familiar yet entirely unplaceable. Von’s flashy black dress hypnotizes its onlookers, rhythmically swaying like a sea’s tide carrying sailors to their siren. The men at the bar, all too eager to prove their gallant worth, stare blankly at their enchantress. They’ve already given hundreds in tips-- their ships have long since sailed. They’re caught under her spell; their ears, eyes, hearts, minds, and wallets belong to her now. I’d feel sorry for them, but it’s a nightclub, they should have known what to expect coming in. It’s a fool’s endeavor to enter here without ears plugged with wax. They’ll catch on tomorrow, when they're sober, hungover, and missing bundles of cash. It’s ironic how much this means for them. They’ll spend thousands coming here again, hoping they’ll stumble across her shift. But it’s just another night for her; she’s going home alone, as she always does, driving her Jeep through the tired streets of Chicago, only allowing herself to blink in the safety of her apartment on 53rd. She’ll sleep, safe and content in comfort.

“...I see your face when each day is through…”

The ballroom’s elegance transcends that of whichever guest of ‘honor’ they’re hosting tonight. The usual decorum is covered by tapestries and photographs of this evening’s socialite, who’s name I can’t stomach to remember. They’re all the same, the ‘opportunistic,’ backstabbing men who climb to the top by stepping on those who trust them. To be this prominent, their only virtues can be selfishness or the bloodline they were born to. A twenty five year old’s birthday party, funded by a hostage negotiation between daddy and somebody’s kneecaps. Pathetic.

“And days go past. Oh, so fast…”

I’m here to watch the people, not judge them. I’m paid to stop drunken aristocrats from shattering our fine establishment’s illusion of grandeur, not caring what they do when they aren’t paying us. Yet I’ve found our establishment’s clientele increasingly sickening over the years. Say what you will about our services back in the old days, but at least bordello patrons had shame. Now they raise their glasses, praising their filth. The men at the bar stop laughing, their faces frozen in twisted grins of corruption. As I look around, the sea of dancing socialites occupying the floor stops waving, a wave of static washing over them. Von’s still on stage singing. We lock eyes. There’s something new, a searing fire behind her eyes, scorching malice for me and me alone. My surroundings fade into nothingness as I fail to break her gaze. Her shadow envelopes the room, razing all but her into a void of judgment. Who is she? I think, desperately, of why I can’t recognize her, why none of this feels right. My eyes widen with realization as her cold abyss swallows me whole again.

“...But memories, they last.”

I jolt up from my bed, my cold sweat discomforting me greatly. Sighing, I open the window to invite the cold November air to join me. I light and take a drag from my cigarette, its comfortable toxin filling my lungs. The city is peaceful now, before the sun rises up the denizens, beginning a new day. I stumble to my desk, carefully avoiding the spent smokes and beer cans littering the creaking wooden floors. My diary lays open, desultory attempts at answering my therapist's prompts scrawled across the page from the night before. I’ve tried to write for weeks now, but while I can vividly still picture my memories in my head, I have not the strength to share them. Recording my sins will not absolve me of them. But as I look around my dimly lit room, haunted by the ghosts of my crippling isolation, I realize I have not a single thing better to do.

“Let it be known I don’t believe in this. A word written in blood may be legible, but it is not a pretty sight. I trust you, doctor. But a futile effort in good faith will always still be futile.

I still remember everything from that day. It replays in my head like a movie you would never want to buy a ticket to. It’s early morning now. I’ve only recently awoken from the prison of my slumber-- not that reality is much better. I saw her again, but it took me longer to recognize her. Her father didn’t show. I think I’m too scared to face him. Moses: my first, best, and last friend. We didn’t grow up together, but even shortly after we met it felt like we had always known each other. Just weeks after we were assigned each other as partners, I couldn’t imagine a life where I didn’t know him. Now I don’t have to.

Two years after we made detective, something new entered our city. A demon. It torched community centers and hospitals. It sold weapons to gangs, pitting them against each other like a child banging two toys together. This was far from harmless play. Just as the fire it planted, it spread, devouring more and more of the city. The case quickly grew beyond Moses and me, but we always retained a spot on the task force. We instituted curfews, lockdowns, and hotlines. Not a day went by those phones didn’t ring. Federal agencies got involved, but they provided little but funding, not that any of it went to waste. Moses and I watched the red sunrise every morning, each bloodier than the day before.

After a few months, someone brought in something different. Not just a demon-- no, we had seen plenty of those before, usually taking their sentence instead of betraying their brothers. This one was different. Fresh blood. An overzealous kid in over his head. I traded protection for information. He delivered.

They called themselves The New Accord. TNA. They wanted to sow violence and chaos, called themselves freedom fighters, trying to raze our city of sin to the ground so they could build atop it a new Eden. He said that the group gave us two options: release control of the city to them, or have our city erased.

Given how much his explanation sounded like hostage demands, I questioned if he was just an actor. But peering into the windows to what I hoped was his soul, I saw back reflected pure fear. It didn’t matter if he was sent to deliver a message. He was scared. A scared boy in need of help. So I helped. I sent him far, far away. Only I know where, a secret I won’t reveal. Nobody from TNA could get to him, but neither could anyone from his old life. He sacrificed everything for safety. He should have been safe in the city. I would make it safe in the city for him again.

Almost a year after the demon first appeared in the city, we had found a name: Gabriel Balzani. He wasn’t the leader, but he was close enough to the top to get us there. There was an ambush. It was a success. We had him. His arrest wasn’t enough to end it, but it gave us-- and more importantly, the city-- something we had lost: hope. He pointed us to someone, who pointed us to another, who pointed us to another, who pointed to her. Who they called Eve. The Progenitor. Her goal was extermination. A metropolitan baptism. She didn’t care about fatalities. The closer we got to her, the more people died. When we discovered one of her old apartments, the entire complex leveled within minutes. When we found her name… when we found her name, she fell a bridge. Each blow in our fight cost hundreds of who we fought for. So we hid, building our investigation in the same shadows she operated in. We infiltrated her network, each day becoming more like her. Still protected by a classified file, I suffer the luxury of not being able to share the details. But despite our less than heroic methods, two years after she came to the city, we knew where she was. We made our move. Another success. We had her.

Moses and I were heroes. They decorated us like Christmas trees and, like fools, we were proud of it. We were celebrated, our faces plastered across skylines. We did sanitized interviews, scrubbing our public accounts of what we did. Six months after the last connection to TNA went cold, Moses had a highly publicized wedding, even inviting the Governor to attend. We were famous, and we were safe. But threats aren’t gone until they’re dead.

Ten years later. I heard news of an explosion at the prison. Eve was missing. Moses, he held a personal stake in finding her. He didn’t appreciate old ghosts coming back to haunt him. I told him to suit up, to take the helm. He would lead the manhunt, and I would stay on lockdown with his family. I said they would be safe. Three days passed with nothing, and she decided to strike. Explosions erupted across the city. She was back with a vengeance, and with her limited time, she wanted to make a mark. In that first day, close to a dozen bombs must have exploded. It figuratively and literally shook the city. We hadn’t experienced violence like that since she was put away. On the second day, she-”

I sigh. This is where I always stop. I can remember the details clearly-- the scream of a dead woman walking, the last cry of a mother in her final attempt to protect her young-- but I cannot find words adequate to describe their depravity. I still understand not this exercise. Exonerating me from my guilt will not undo my failures. The sun rises behind me, casting my shadow upon the paper before me. The city will be up soon, excited to start a new day. I can’t imagine its enthusiasm.

“I envied Moses’ family. Things never seemed to work out for me family-wise, but they took me in like one of their own. His daughter thought of me as an uncle, his wife a brother. I remember that morning waking up in the next room over in the safe house, all the windows locked tightly shut. I dragged myself across the floor, wondering how long we’d have to stay here. I woke up his daughter, only seven at the time. She heard the sirens wailing by and wanted to see the police cars, hoping her father was among them. She was so proud of her father. I told her it was too dangerous, that all the windows were locked. I should have said the windows were broken. Kids are stupid, they can’t fix a “broken” window. But they can unlock a lock. I stepped into the other room, beginning to make breakfast. I ate with Zoe, Moses’ wife. As I was cleaning the dishes, the window silently crept open. I heard a clunk from the other room, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. I had my back to the door, but as I heard Zoe leaping into the room, screaming a desperate plea, I knew what it was. I tried to grab her and pull her back, but I was too late. It only took a moment of blinding light to erase them both from this world.

I filled out the reports: F(35) and F(7). That’s all that was left of them now. That day was the last I saw Moses. I remember the great rivers of loss running down his face. He wasn’t angry with me. He never yelled. He didn’t speak. He silently left, both my life and the force. Soon after I did the same.

Two weeks later was the funeral. They caught her long before, not that her capture would undo the damage. I wasn’t invited, not that I could have gone if I was. Cowardly, but I felt like I’d already buried his family once. I just couldn’t do it again. It took six months to find the courage to visit the grave I dug for them. The air bit my lungs, the dead just as disgusted by my visit as I. I stood there for what felt like hours, reading and rereading the tombstone over and over again, hoping it would change to someone else’s fate. “Zoe and Von Donahue, Mother, Daughter, Loved. May they find the peace we never could.” Perhaps I expected the somber air in my soul to release, allowing the knot in my chest to untighten. It never did. It’s never gotten better. It can’t.

I step away from the notebook, exhausted. Walking to the window once more, I draw in deep breaths of the stale air surrounding me as my feet cut on the shards of cans scattering the floor. I’ve been in this apartment since I left the force, rarely mustering the strength to allow myself to leave. I lean out the window, watching the quiet sunset. The day’s passed me by. I read what I wrote just hours before, disgusted. I seek not empathy. I seek not pity. I fought for the city’s peace, for their freedom, but I deserve not to enjoy it myself. I serve my sentence alone from this cell. I rip out the pages, throwing them out the window to the curb below, the wind scattering them to wherever they may be. I need not therapy. I need not help. I need merely to live with the consequences of a promise I failed to keep. I creak to my bed, closing my eyes, ready to meet my ghosts again. Imagining a world where she lived, where she grew up, where I retired, where she knows not my failures. Again and again. Until my failure claims me too.