sorry story

	Lisa Hannigan / Damien Rice   Silent Night   O

In the darkness, my hands move. I tap on the walls, feeling, searching for the wooden door. From afar, I can hear a faucet dripping. Its hollow sound is like the beat of a song lost in time. It is almost silent, save for the jingling of my keys. The rusty hinges moan as I open the door.

Story, my prisoner, is lying naked on the table. Her plate of food remains untouched near the window. The moon illuminates her body, her breasts sullen but plump in the pale light.

I close the door behind me, the midnight wind howling through the small cracks. “You haven’t been eating,” I say to her.

“You didn’t come back.” Her voice betrays a pain familiar to me. It is my own, only amplified.

“I was busy.”

“You forgot about me.”

“I came as soon as I could.”

“I could’ve died here, you know. You’re lucky I’m still here.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I come closer. Her face is covered in sweat. I shush her, my fingers running through her hair.

I feel a sharp pain on my left hand. Story is biting me. Her legs tense up as she musters all her strength. I cry out in pain. I beg her to stop but she doesn’t. I slap her with my free hand.

“Story!” I bark. “You weren’t supposed to do that. You were supposed to play nice.” She lets go of me. My ruby blood drips to the stone table.

“Do I repulse you?” she asks without looking at me. “Do you find me ugly?” Her thin hands seem translucent as they run through her body. Her right hand rests on her breasts, her other fondles her crotch.

“It’s not that, it’s-”

“You forgot about me!” she interrupts, shouting. “I waited for you. All these weeks, I’ve done nothing but wait. Someone told me you’ve been looking at other stories. Like you were gonna write them again. Have you forgotten that I’m still here, still unwritten?”

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. She was right. I procrastinated too much. As the days go by, it has become increasingly difficult to commit her to paper.

“I was beautiful,” she whimpers. “Now look at me.”

“You’re still beautiful. I still think you’re beautiful. Come, let’s go. I’ll make us some tea and we can write you down.”

“These past few weeks, I’ve been finding hate for you.” She seems proud to say this. It would’ve worked, had she not been crying. My heart breaks as I search for the right words to say.

“C’mon Story. It’s time. I’m sorry it took so long. Take my hand. I’ll help you off the table.” I offer her my right hand. She takes my left, the one that’s still bleeding. I wrap a blanket around her, both of us ashamed of her nakedness. As I help her up, I feel her ribs through her skin. Why didn’t she take care of herself?

“What kept you?” she asked. “It’s been weeks since you last wrote anything. The other stories have already left. They looked for other writers who weren’t so difficult.”

“I guess I was scared. I wanted to prove something. And it terrified me to write.”

“Why were you so scared? It didn’t used to matter if anyone liked us. You would catch a story, write it down, then catch another one and write that down.”

“I know,” I said, exhausted by this prolonged realization. “I wanted them to like me. I wanted it so badly. I used to write alone. Now it feels like I’m in a crowded room looking for a quiet corner. My eyes look through the booths and tables but they’re all packed.”

“They shouldn’t matter,” she whispers in my ear. As we walk out of the dark room, Story sings me a little song. It’s one I know from my childhood but she has changed the words.

Silent night, broken night.
All is fallen when you take your flight.
I found some hate for you just for show.
You found some love for me thinking I’d go.
Don’t keep me from crying to sleep.
Sleep in heavenly peace.

“I’m sorry,” I say when she finishes her song. “It’ll be over soon. I promise.”