We Are Here to Hurt Each Other

by Paula D. Ashe

“We can help that baby, Marissa. No one ever helped us!” I gasp. At the last syllable a jolt of electricity flares from his palms into mine. The voltage snakes through me, needles against my nerves, and all the strength, all the resistance slips from my body. I sink back into my seat. He releases my trembling hand and the vibration ebbs from my body, dissipates into the air. “Sorry.” I rub my damaged hand. Taze’s eyes are clamped shut, his fingers massage his nose. It hasn’t been the addiction that’s eating him alive, but the guilt. The guilt is what brought him here, what made him beg, and what he loosed while gripping my hand. I felt it burrow into my heart like a razor-toothed worm. No one ever helped us. Not neighbors, not teachers, not relatives. They could have, but didn’t. They just watched. Maybe that kid still has a chance. We talk. With each word we blacken the sky. The tension between us slowly crumbles, its grains floating away in the undertow of our conversation. I’ve an ocean of things to tell him. He swims through tales of failed relationships, aspirations gone sour, and the begrudging contentment that comes from peaceful resignation. His stories are storms. By the end, we are both glad to have survived the re-telling. I glance out of the grime-coated windows. The moon is full.