The Last Kiss

Written: 1993   |   Setting: Private home during a nighttime storm   |   650 words   |   5 Minutes minute read

With great force, the wind blew the tree branches against the window. Inky and black, the night seemed to be a frightening predator and I the only prey. Only a thin pane of glass protected me and sheltered me from what lay beyond. The stars resembled tiny, imprisoned angels, damned to live and shine in that lethal sky, only to fall and fade as they died.

One kiss. That was all he wanted.

Pale and sad, he offered a full red rose. He asked only for a kiss. My guilt was not great, but remained a small open wound that oozed hateful feelings of sorrow and rage. Only a little time, that was all he asked for. I did not know. I could not see.

Why did I not see?

Was it I who broke his heart? Did I not see through that dark?

I remembered the look in his eyes. I knew I should not have been so cruel. Those blue highlights sparkled with life, melancholy but hopeful. His eyes were beautiful in the summer sun. His dark brown hair had just a hint of auburn. I didn’t know.

Just one small kiss.

I was sorry to hear of his departure. The demise of someone who knew me so well. Though I had always refused his affections, he still seemed so devoted. He only wanted one kiss. That was it. That wasn’t so much to ask for.

The clouds were moving in and hiding the stars from my view. They covered the little angels. Was the night moving in for the kill? Did that fear cause my heartbeat to accelerate to a painful rate?

No. I was curious. Perhaps my heart was numb. Maybe grief would slowly sink into my soul, like a steel ocean liner being swallowed by the sea.

I refused him.

Thunder grew closer; the wind picked up speed. I could hear someone open the front door downstairs. He decided to take his own life, to murder himself. Was it just because I turned my back on him?

What could one kiss have possibly meant?

I knew that my imagination was making me think he was the one coming up the steps. But I knew it wasn’t.

I had locked the front door.

His funeral was yesterday. He was buried and put to rest. He had just wanted one kiss. I knew that I did not cause all of this. I couldn’t have. He was so shy until the day he offered me the flower. Petals as soft as the plushest of velvets.

Was it entirely my fault? Did I have blood on my hands?

Rain tapped at my window. It pittered and pattered as if to summon my attention. It drummed through an otherwise silent house.

The footsteps drew closer, closer, and closer. The soft steps were barely audible, but I could hear them. They approached the end of the stairway as I dwelled on my refusal.

My silly, foolish pride. The ridiculous fear of losing my immaculate reputation. I never thought I wouldn’t care about that. He couldn’t be the one climbing the steps, the one venturing through my abode.

I couldn’t stand the feeling that I did have something to do with it.

How could I? Why did I blame myself? Obviously, he was unstable; that wasn’t my fault. Who the hell would kill themselves because of a kiss?

But perhaps I was to blame. Maybe all of this was my fault. Maybe I did have his blood on my hands.

Maybe he would not have been standing outside my bedroom door if I had given in.

Maybe that would’ve been true love for me.

Maybe I deserved what I was about to get. Whatever that may be.

The wind let out a mournful howl, a cry of agony and grief. Maybe if I had been a little less scornful, he wouldn’t have been opening my bedroom door right then.

Maybe I would not have heard the old rusted hinges creak and groan. Maybe desire could defeat even death. I knew that sounded crazy, but what else? Something impossible had occurred.

Maybe if I had accepted his adoration, he would not have hanged himself. It sounded far-fetched and unbelievable, but maybe.

Maybe he wouldn’t have been there then.

Yes, I think I was at fault. I think I was to blame. Perhaps I was entirely to blame.

Maybe he would not have been at my bedside, offering me a blood-red rose if things had been different.

Maybe he would not have been reaching toward me with those cold and clammy arms, holding me in an awkward position, as I waited for the last kiss.

Maybe . . .