It was a whirlpool, one of endings, last chances, failure and redemption.
The current, which once might’ve been a gentle lull, was fully charged and livid.
The dark blue swirls, courtesy of the shimmering silver light, collided with the empty black; drawing angry faces in the water.These faces had no form, no shapes or definitions. Yet these faces had their own story, their own past and their own songs.
The desolate streetlights amplified the reverberating loud and incoherent voices.
Some cackled, some whimpered, some cried out in agony, demanding me to hear them before the other. Hear their justifications and nod with empathy.
But their masters would have none of that.
Each wave gnawed at whatever was trying to escape, drowning with it every broken speech, every broken dream and every broken man.
Cold sweat flattened itself against my vulnerability.
Salty water mingled with the downpour of acids, flushed my skin of remaining shards of a caked on mask.
The cheap metal shook under my palms, encouraging me to take one step forward. Just one.
One palm let loose, eager to join the symphony of loss, while the other held on with a wavering conviction.
“I forgive you.” A voice whispered, against the brutal wind.
There she stood, palms holding onto each other for dear life.
Mascara smudged, hair disheveled and crusty lips.
The moment was too raw, too intimate.
The space between the two crawled with swallowed words, unspoken accusations and most of all, evident regret.
Memories seemed to sizzle, moving rapidly from one end to the other.
It was too much. The smiles, laughs, tears. They had all come together to build up this moment.
Just for a second, if not more, she saw a shadow of doubt.
She saw a chance at redemption.
“But I don’t.”
And much like human misconception, destructive and untimely, a bolt of thunder ultimately destroyed the last fragments of hope.
