Let Me Save You (A Short Story by D.E. Hawkley)

John watched her from a distance, he had watched her many nights before this one but he had made his decision –tonight would be the night he would save her. Watching her now as she stood on the corner of Queen Street and Main, John stood just inside the mouth of a dim alleyway.

She didn't always stand where she was now, not for as long as she had been, she usually traveled between Queen and King, along Main Street. Tonight, however, she had spend the better part of three hours in one spot.

John knew this was unusually for he had watched her now for the last month, ever since he found her; realizing who she was.

As he watched her now, she just on the edge of the flickering of a dying street lamp, silhouetted against a dilapidated building, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Retrieving a matchbook from her purse she struck the match not once, or twice, but three times in frustration before tossing it to the ground –useless.

Over the past few weeks John could tell that something was wrong with her, she seemed agitated, strung out more than usual, bothered.

Tonight she wore a simple pink sundress with black designs across the hem, toned down from her usual get-ups of half torn lingerie-style clothing. The thin left shoulder strap slide slightly down her arm as she tore a second match from the almost exhausted matchbook.

No luck with the second match, she discarded as she had the first and tore out the last match. No luck. Tossing the depleted matchbook to the ground she uttered a curse word and let out an aspirated sigh; a frustrated sigh, heavy in breath.

John had always watched her from afar, just beyond where he felt she could see him. Her pale blue eyes reminded him of someone from long ago –someone long since lost from the world. Though she had the eyes, they weren't always clear. Sometimes they were black and blue, other times rimmed red from crying, and on other occasions cloudy from recent drug use. Her hair, the color of honey in spring made him smile sadly, no matter what was going on in her world, what pain her eyes portrayed, it was always combed neatly; hanging to her shoulders, pushed back behind her ear.

He thought he was dreaming for a moment, but returning from his thoughts, after the third time he heard someone calling out, he realized that she was calling out to him –she had spotted him. Seen him standing on the other side of the street, down away, half hanging out a of a dark alley. Had she noticed that he was staring at her, or had he looked away before the staring spell took him.

"Hey, buddy!" she called out a fourth time, waving her hands. "Spaceman, you got a light?" She held up her cigarette to him, waving it, shoulders shrugged.

John stared at her shyly for a moment before nodding slowly. Moving awkwardly, he crossed the street slowly, pulling a lighter from his jacket pocket. He didn't smoke, hadn't in a number of years, but someone always needed a light –so, he carried one.

Reaching out she took his lighter from his offering hand and the world seemed to switch into slow motion for him. He watched her flick the light, sparking the flame. She closed her eyes, her cheeks sinking in and throat opening up as she inhaled the flame into the tobacco. It burned instantly, the tobacco dry.

When the world resumed it's natural pace, John realized that his eyes had left her face and traveled down to stare at her elbow. Resting on the old needle marks, and the fresh ones. Small puncture scars, set in the form of a trail, from long-term injected drug use, lined the hollow of her arm where the elbow was.

Continuing down her forearm, he noticed the faint scars of attempted suicide, razor cuts that ran along her wrists. Never across the road, he thought to himself, always down the street – for success. As he stared he imagined how it must have been for her, sitting alone somewhere with the razor, crying or not, sick of the world and the path her life had taken. Stoned, most likely, probably just lit up off fresh drugs, slowly dragging the razor across her wrist. By the looks of the scars, he must have been too scared to dig deep enough to end it all, if she had she wouldn't have been her now.