Just A Car Insurance #Part3

Two more weeks later, I waited for her in front of her building door when she got home from work. She was surprised to see me standing there.

“I was just about to ring”, I said to her while watching her chaining up her bike to the post, as usual. “May we speak, Layla?”
“I am really busy. Some other time?”

“It is June 29^th today.”

“Yes, it is indeed”, she replied and began looking for her keys in her backpack. I grabbed her by the wrist, because people should not ignore other people when they are talking.

“I am talking to you”, I said. “It is June, the 29^th.”

“I don’t know what that means. Let go of me.”
“Five years ago, on June 29^th my wife died.”
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude earlier.”
“Do you know how many things occur in a persons mind before she even says the word sorry to someone? My wife, she used to say sorry a lot. She would spill the coffee and say sorry. She would then break her ankle again. And she would tumble over and say sorry. And she would hurt her head again. If she had thought about her actions before she had done them, there would not have been any need for saying sorry in the first place. You see, people are not what they seem to be. You can throw away any gift I give you. And yet, fate is fate and faith is faith. From that, you cannot escape and that gift cannot ever be returned. So you being sorry, is really not all that important, because all of your actions precede it.”

I let go of her arm, because it wasn’t time yet. She needed to think first. I let her find her keys and rush into her building. Meanwhile, I walked away and sat at my dining table again, watching her running up the stairs to her flat.

One week later the day had finally come. For the last week her bike had not moved at 6 a.m. and I had not seen her come home from work once. This meant, that she had locked herself up in her apartment to think. That is all I wanted, for her to think and to finally accept fate. The five-year dance had been long enough. It had been worth the wait, but the waiting had now found its purpose. I gift wrapped one of my wife's dresses, placed my toothbrush in my briefcase and stepped out to go to Layla with my briefcase and the gift in my hands.

I rang the doorbell, but nobody was opening the door. Then that old lady I had met before, looked at me and said:

“So it didn’t work the other day. Are you sure you want to try again?”
“She is my fate.”
“Fair enough. I shouldn’t let you in, but you look like such a nice man.”

“Thank you, Madam.”
“And so polite. Come in.”

I walked up the stairs and finally stood in front of Layla's door. I rang the bell and knocked three times. But nobody would open. The gap underneath the door did not reveal anything either. I started swinging at the door with all my strength. It was such an old wooden door, that I was hoping to break it open. And I finally did. Now nothing in the world could keep us apart any more and she would meet Sue, at long last. I peeped into her bedroom, but nobody was in there. Then I took a quick look into her bathroom. But that was also empty. I got the impression that some of her things were missing, too. Unless she didn’t own a toothbrush, there was none there. It was a good thing, I had brought mine then. I cautiously stepped into her living room with its adjacent kitchen. It was dark and I turned on the light. Nobody was in this room, either. But there was a pen and a piece of paper on her dining table. I pulled up a chair and sat down to read what she had written on that paper:

“Dear Nathan,

the eyes are the window to the soul. Mine have light, yours have darkness. Calla Lillies allow you to rest, for me they are part of an eternal peace I do not seek. Sue is resting, but she didn’t just die, she was murdered. Not on June 29^th , but one week later on July 6^th. And you will never bake cookies such as hers, no matter how hard you try, because her blood is on your hands. The parents of a young girl, that had been assaulted on her way home, had arranged hundreds of calla lillies around her memorial stone. The event I mentioned was a funeral. This is what you seek, but it is not what you get. Not because it isn’t fate, but because superstition is alive within all of us to protect us. My day-job, the one you wait for me to come home from on my bike, is criminal profiling. I am a psychiatrist. Your DNA is on most of my mail, your prints are on my door and you are being expected by the police outside. They will also find your tears on this paper and your teeth-marks on my pencil. I think of my actions before I pursue them. So you see, nobody is who she seems to be. Superstition is smartness in the face of fate. And I am not sorry for that.”

The End...

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Posted in: Creative,Short Story