My Grace

One day ago, he had been a regular 20-something-year-old, plagued with perennial existential crises, shallow pockets, and a sense of no direction. The events of the past 24 hours had culminated in his whole life, his whole existence really, changing for good. He wiped the mist from the opulent, gold-rimmed hotel bathroom mirror and gave himself a once-over. The man looking back was a stranger. A disheveled, unshaved mess with bloodshot eyes and a thinning hairline. He scratched at the day’s old stubble on his chin, unable to wrap his mind around how he got here and what the hell the future had in store. The only thing his tired mind could conjure up was images of the night before in that dark, grimy basement masquerading as a Speakeasy…

Grace stared at him with those piercing, big, brown eyes that always seemed to be searching his soul. There was a glimmer in her eye he didn’t recognize. Even above the blaring music and cigarette smoke, they were in their own little universe. Oblivious. Maybe slightly delirious from the adrenaline still rushing through their systems. She smiled at him, a wistful, almost sad smile. Even the bags under her eyes and knots in her luscious auburn locks could not detract from her beauty. In that moment, he loved her more than he knew was possible. As he looked at her, the events of that day came flooding back with the same rush he had felt in that moment.

He remembered how he had stumbled out of the courthouse that morning, mind racing, heart thumping, and limbs shaking. He remembered how the verdict had replayed in his ears: “Insufficient evidence,” “Not guilty.” He remembered looking at the man who he knew had strangled his girlfriend in a dark alley with his bare hands after she refused to give up her grandmother’s ring that she wore every day. He remembered the look on that tall, heavy-set man’s face when he was set free, not an ounce of remorse. He remembered following him out of the courthouse, but he could not remember the drive to the Speakeasy. His body had operated on pure muscle memory, but his eyes had not left his mark for a single second. He remembered parking his car behind the vile man’s, under a flickering street lamp that cast an ominous shadow. He remembered how he had run up to the driver’s door and yanked the murderer out, the same way he had yanked his future from under him. His mind went black then, but in his ears he could hear his fists pounding on flesh. He didn’t know how long he had punched, kicked, smothered, smashed, and strangled. All he knew was that no measure of violence would make up for the violent way in which his precious love had been removed from his orbit.

A loud rock ‘n’ roll number stirred him from his reverie. His Grace was looking at him the same way she had looked at him for the past 2 years—like he was the only man in the room, the only man she had ever laid her eyes on. He reached out his arm to touch her face and touched only cold, hard glass. It was then that the tears came. His Grace was gone. Last night was only a machination of his fractured mind. Last night when he had stumbled into that Speakeasy where she was sitting by the bar in the blood-red dress he loved, and she stared longingly into his eyes until dawn. She was still gone. Even after he had avenged her in that parking lot, she was still gone. He looked down at his fists, bloodied and bruised. Her killer was gone. But so was she. His Grace was still gone.

As he put on the black suit that she loved so dearly, he knew it would only be a matter of time until the murderer was found with his DNA stamped all over that vile face. He knotted his tie and walked to the mirror once more, this time with something in his hand. As he looked at his reflection, though, he saw hope, love, and Grace. Her smile as radiant as ever, the speckles in her brown eyes glimmering, and her hand beckoning. He knew that he could not exist in a world where she didn’t. He lifted the gun to his temple, and with no hesitation, fired a single shot.