Three Kings and an Epiphany (Chapter 5)
A short linking chapter before we get to the end and to let you know I have not forgotten about this story. EVERYBODY finishes their Christmas story in May, right? Marys, this one is for you.
oh yeah, and Sam says 'fuck' in this. a lot.
Sam spent the first ten minutes after she left pacing his living room, working hard to not put his fist right through his drywall in frustration (screw the nail pops, let’s do some real damage). When he was sure he could at least sit on the couch without burning a hole of rage into it, he flopped down, slammed his feet onto the coffee table and tilted his head back to rest on the cushions.
He turned his head to stretch and stopped when his eye caught something on the side table. A tower of Christmas and get well cards lay stacked there, where they had been for the last few weeks, most not even opened. He pushed the pile over and begin going through them, looking for one in particular that had come in a few days after he got home from the hospital.
It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.
In his hand laid a light blue envelope with a return address from Miami, his name in familiar loopy handwriting on the front. He paused momentarily before ripping it open and pulling out a simple notecard. In his current state, he no longer saw any reason to avoid the message written inside, might as well rub salt in the old wound, eh, Swarek?
The message was simple and to the point. Given the author, Sam was not even a little surprised at its brevity.
Sorry can’t even begin to describe how badly I feel about everything that happened, but I guess it’s the only thing left to say. I am sorry - for so many things, but I am not sorry about what we had.
Be happy, Sam. In the end, it’s the only thing that matters.
Marlo
He read it twice before tossing it onto the floor and hoisting himself off the couch with an audible sigh. Just another piece of evidence proving what denying what you really wanted (needed) got you - a big fucking mess and another unintentional casualty.
Whomever said all was fair in love and war clearly had not a clue as to how bad it could really get. Sam was pretty sure not one damn thing that happened in the last month was even remotely close to fair, least of all to Marlo.
He stomped through the living room and kitchen, swearing and calling himself a fucking idiot while he shut off the lights. Banging down the hallway to his bedroom, he stopped short in the doorway when he saw his bed.
Pillows plumped, sheets turned down, orange light on the mattress pad dial glowing, it sat there and mocked him.
Less then an hour ago, she was here.
She was here and he had hurt her. Again.
For a moment, Sam was afraid he was he was actually going to weep. He even found himself taking the deep shuttering breaths he mastered when he was six and developed his love of the smell of gasoline and grass clippings.
(Don’t you fucking cry. Don’t you do it. Only fucking pansy-asses cry, Sammy-boy. And no son of mine is going to be a pansy.)
He didn’t want this clean, warm (empty) bed. He didn’t want this damn empty house. He didn't want to keep his secrets and his heart locked up. He didn't want to live his life in a constant haze of grief over what might have been if he had just been brave enough to be the man he wanted to be.
Enough.
Enough of all the bullshit baggage he carried with him. Enough of believing she was better off without him. Enough of trying to convince himself he could find anything that resembled any kind of happiness without her.
He was done.
Determined not one more night would pass without him telling her how he really felt, he raced back through the townhouse and opened the front closet. Yanking on his ski jacket, gloves, and even a touque, he pulled open the front door and stepped out into the bitter night air.
Bracing himself against the wind, he headed in the direction of the old toilet factory, about thirty blocks away.
Sam Swarek was going to get his girl.
oh yeah, and Sam says 'fuck' in this. a lot.
Sam spent the first ten minutes after she left pacing his living room, working hard to not put his fist right through his drywall in frustration (screw the nail pops, let’s do some real damage). When he was sure he could at least sit on the couch without burning a hole of rage into it, he flopped down, slammed his feet onto the coffee table and tilted his head back to rest on the cushions.
He turned his head to stretch and stopped when his eye caught something on the side table. A tower of Christmas and get well cards lay stacked there, where they had been for the last few weeks, most not even opened. He pushed the pile over and begin going through them, looking for one in particular that had come in a few days after he got home from the hospital.
It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.
In his hand laid a light blue envelope with a return address from Miami, his name in familiar loopy handwriting on the front. He paused momentarily before ripping it open and pulling out a simple notecard. In his current state, he no longer saw any reason to avoid the message written inside, might as well rub salt in the old wound, eh, Swarek?
The message was simple and to the point. Given the author, Sam was not even a little surprised at its brevity.
Sorry can’t even begin to describe how badly I feel about everything that happened, but I guess it’s the only thing left to say. I am sorry - for so many things, but I am not sorry about what we had.
Be happy, Sam. In the end, it’s the only thing that matters.
Marlo
He read it twice before tossing it onto the floor and hoisting himself off the couch with an audible sigh. Just another piece of evidence proving what denying what you really wanted (needed) got you - a big fucking mess and another unintentional casualty.
Whomever said all was fair in love and war clearly had not a clue as to how bad it could really get. Sam was pretty sure not one damn thing that happened in the last month was even remotely close to fair, least of all to Marlo.
He stomped through the living room and kitchen, swearing and calling himself a fucking idiot while he shut off the lights. Banging down the hallway to his bedroom, he stopped short in the doorway when he saw his bed.
Pillows plumped, sheets turned down, orange light on the mattress pad dial glowing, it sat there and mocked him.
Less then an hour ago, she was here.
She was here and he had hurt her. Again.
For a moment, Sam was afraid he was he was actually going to weep. He even found himself taking the deep shuttering breaths he mastered when he was six and developed his love of the smell of gasoline and grass clippings.
(Don’t you fucking cry. Don’t you do it. Only fucking pansy-asses cry, Sammy-boy. And no son of mine is going to be a pansy.)
He didn’t want this clean, warm (empty) bed. He didn’t want this damn empty house. He didn't want to keep his secrets and his heart locked up. He didn't want to live his life in a constant haze of grief over what might have been if he had just been brave enough to be the man he wanted to be.
Enough.
Enough of all the bullshit baggage he carried with him. Enough of believing she was better off without him. Enough of trying to convince himself he could find anything that resembled any kind of happiness without her.
He was done.
Determined not one more night would pass without him telling her how he really felt, he raced back through the townhouse and opened the front closet. Yanking on his ski jacket, gloves, and even a touque, he pulled open the front door and stepped out into the bitter night air.
Bracing himself against the wind, he headed in the direction of the old toilet factory, about thirty blocks away.
Sam Swarek was going to get his girl.