The American

I snapped myself out of my memories and turned to look across the city of Paris once more. Additional memories made appearances before my very eyes and I began to break down. Once upon a time, I had been easily capable of controlling my emotions, before Stacy died in my arms on that day six months ago. I realised there and then, with a huge pang of regret, that I had once promised her I would bring her to this place. It was yet another promise I had broken and I was visibly disgusted with myself. 

I began to entertain those dangerous thoughts of just giving up. I wanted to feel Stacy in my arms so very desperately, and ever since the day I’d failed to protect her my mind had mercilessly tortured me over it. I wasn’t sure if I could handle it any longer and as I looked down to the crowds below me, I wondered idly if a fall from here would do the job and deliver me home to her. I remembered that I once hoped that we would find each other in the afterlife, but even then, that was if the afterlife even existed. I didn’t believe so. I was sure that death was just eternal blackness that you would never emerge from again. I tried to compose myself; I didn’t want to have another full scale break down in front of hundreds of people, it wouldn’t be fair on them to have to share in my grief. I took a deep breath and turned away to lean my back on the lattice. It seemed pretty rigid and I was impressed at the safety precautions the French had obviously taken to prevent anybody with the same ideas as me from ending it all. Still, I wondered if it was indeed true that dying was easier and quicker than falling asleep. 

“Excuse me, do you speak English?” asked a woman’s voice that was layered with a rich American accent just off to my right. I turned to face a young woman, who looked to me as though she was around the age of nineteen. She had a mane of dark blonde hair that fell in a shining curtain towards the back of her shoulders and was slightly shorter than me. She certainly seemed like an attractive girl with the hair, heart shaped face and deep green eyes, and I probably would have noticed that fact six months ago. However, that, like everything else in my life was long gone now. 

“The silent type? I like that,” she continued carefully. “I'm sorry. I  shouldn't have bothered you-” 

“No I'm sorry,” I replied as she turned away. 

The girl smiled. It was probably the satisfaction of getting an answer out of me that did it.

“You’re British,” she acknowledged pleasantly as she turned back to face me. 

“I was.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

“Not particularly. You wouldn't understand,” I muttered just loud enough for her to hear me. 

“That’s cool... I guess.” I watched her swing her hands back and forth awkwardly and wondered if she could see the hurt and the pain etched on my face. I decided I didn't care so I turned my back on her to stare out at the city again. The girl moved over to lean on the railings beside me, and I could feel her eyes watching my every move.  

“I know that look,” she told me quietly. “I've seen it on plenty of faces back home. I wouldn't do it, that’s a quite a drop.” 

I looked at her and her face fell as she saw the emotions raging through me, every second brought a different emotion; pain, grief, loss, more grief. They rippled through me in furious waves but I just didn't care. 

“You look like you've had a rough night,” she muttered. 

“Yeah, and the rest.” I scoffed as I looked away. 

“I wish I could help you Mr?” 

“Danny.” 

“Danny? That’s a nice name, for a Brit.” 

I groaned at the bad joke, and then the memory of my bad joke towards Stacy all those years ago rifled into me like another bullet to the shoulder. I shook violently and was forced to clutch the iron railings for support as I began to hyperventilate. 

I was wrong; I couldn't handle it any more. I wanted all of the grief and pain to go away and infect someone else. I just wanted peace. I wanted to die. These past months of travelling, all I wanted; all I've looked for, was an answer, no matter how small, to explain why this world could be so cruel. I was dimly aware of the American girl's attempt to console me, and I could only imagine how awkward it felt for her to be consoling a nervous wreck like me. I felt sorry for her, even though I wanted to tell her to just run, flee back home so that she wouldn't be the next to die because of me. It took every last ounce of my mental strength to pull myself back from the brink of meltdown and I was thankful of the soothing hand on my back as I managed to stand up straight. I turned slowly as she dropped her arm. The tears fell silently but they soon stopped. The girl in front of me looked me over with a real air of concern. I leaned back against the railings and was grateful for the support. 

“I'm sorry, I didn't want anybody to see me like that,” I whispered. 

“What happened to you, Danny? I've never seen anybody that cut up before.” 

“What’s your name?” I asked the girl slowly. 

“Maria Booth,” she replied. 

“Have you seen many men with a broken heart, Maria?” 

Maria shook her head. “Not to the extent you’re at, no.” 

“Well, Maria, six months ago, I held my wife in my arms as she died. Murdered because of me. so I doubt anyone will be as cut up as I am.” 

Maria took an automatic step back and maybe she was right to be scared. I would be if I was her. It was yet more proof that I destroyed everything I touched. I was a curse. 

“I'm sorry-” she stuttered 

“Don’t be. You weren't to know, were you?” I told her quietly. “It’s just - when I look into the faces of everyone here and I see them happy, and satisfied with their lives, I see the happiness I shared with my wife before she was torn away from me.” 

“I can understand that,” she replied. “That’s natural to think that so soon after...” Maria didn't finish the sentence, and to be honest, I was thankful. 

“I want to thank you for helping me a minute ago, if you’ll let me?” I offered tentatively. 

I wanted her to say no, I wanted her to turn and leave and never return, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to tell her. Of course, Maria nodded, and followed me as I reluctantly led the way into the restaurant.

Author's Note

Possible grammar issues