Failure

She lay in bed with her eyes shut, though I knew she was quite awake. The morning sunlight slipped through the corners of her curtains, so she pulled her blanket up tighter over her head.
I stood in her doorway, watching her in the morning sun. Today was her wedding day; this morning was our last morning. Tomorrow morning would be theirs. But today, for just a few more hours, she was still mine.
Her sister stormed by me through the doorway, not even pausing to acknowledge my presence. After a brief and self-righteous scolding, the bride was out of bed and the blur of her wedding day had begun.
I was her bridesmaid and I was her true best friend; we had been inseparable since our school days. I had been by her side for year, and she by mine. But now, she was getting married, and I knew that her fiancée was about to become her new counterpart.
Her sister ran into the church as soon as we arrived; she had too much to do and no time to do it in! The bride and her bridesmaid, however, stopped outside the door and we turned to look at each other. Both of us had tears in our eyes, for we knew we were about to enter a complete alteration in our relationship. Once we walked through it, things could never go back to how they had always been.
“I love you. So much!” she murmured through the tears that had collected on her cheeks.
“I know.” I tartly replied, forcing a smile at my somewhat inappropriately-timed joke. “You’re pretty alright yourself, you know.”
She smiled back and we embraced outside the door. Then I pulled back from the hug, looked at my bride, smiled and said, “Now let’s go get you married!”
We took a deep breath, turned, and walked towards the door. She entered first, but I held back for a moment, contemplating the loss of my friend to the confines of matrimonial duty. Then I followed behind her and walked through the door.
She waited and she waited and her groom never arrived. The first hour she was annoyed. The second hour she was terrified. The third hour she was furious. And by the time I walked her to her car, drove her home and tucked her into bed, the guests had long ago been sent home and she was devastated.
I found a note on the kitchen table that read:
“I’m sorry. I love you… but not enough. I can’t marry you.
I’m sorry forever and I know this is forever good-bye.”
I crumpled the note in my hands and, wiping the angry tears from my eyes, took a deep breath and threw the evidence in the trash can. It was better that she never saw it written out so plainly. I didn’t have a plan, but I knew I loved her too much to let her see that note. I would figure out what to do in the morning… now I was too filled with rage and empathy to think clearly. The only plan that sounded appropriate at the moment was hunting him down and disemboweling him. It was definitely what he deserved. I thought of my friend and her misery and shook with hatred for the man who had wrecked her.
I heard her call my name from her bedroom. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I poured her some whiskey and started for the bedroom to be the voice of comfort and the shoulder to cry on. I would decide what to do about that note in the morning. Right now, she needed me to be there and needed me to be strong and maybe needed me to lie a little. Right now, I needed to get her through this night. I hesitated, then turned back and grabbed the entire bottle of whiskey and brought both glass and bottle into the bedroom. The next day we left her apartment for mine, and she stayed there the rest of the week. I gave her my bed to sleep in, and she did not leave it except to use the restroom. She refused to eat, no matter which of her favorites I prepared for her. However, she consumed about her daily allotment of calories in alcohol and kept send me out to get more. Every time she woke up, she drank until she fell back asleep. I kept a close watch on her—and made sure she drank plenty of water—but I could not convince her to eat.
It nearly killed me to see her so miserable. And there was no way to relieve her suffering! I still had not the heart to bring up the note I had destroyed, and was continually wracked with guilt because of my deception. So I allowed her self-pity to continue and enabled her self-destruction. I knew I had to support her however she needed. And right now she needed to drink herself emotionless—she wasn’t ready to handle the unbearable pain of loss, rejection, and complete and utter humiliation. She wasn’t ready to have to completely re-plan the rest of her life. She wasn’t ready to start over. She wasn’t ready to face the fact that she was alone. She wasn’t ready to face the harshness of reality—and I knew that. I loved her and I wanted to protect her from the coldness of that truth. More than that, I think, I wanted to protect myself from the realization that I was completely incapable of fixing any of her problems, and I sought to ignore that fact by giving her whatever she desired and hoping that maybe someday I would believe I was helping her. So I didn’t ask questions and I didn’t tell her “no.” I bought her booze and filled her cup and touch her cheek one night while she slept. Her peaceful slumber made me worry that she would never again have a peaceful waking moment. I had no idea how I would console her once the reality from which she was desperately fleeing finally caught up with her. I touched her cheek again and prayed that poor girl could sleep forever. I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, then turned and walked out the door. My heart mourned; I had never been so certain in my life that a prayer had fallen on deaf ears.
In the morning I was awakened from my slumber on my sofa by a rustle in the kitchen. Fearing the return of those pesky mice that just seemed to refuse to stay dead, I scurried into the kitchen; I jumped with shock to see the jilted bride at the table eating a bowl of cereal. Her eyes turned up when I walked through the doorway, and I noticed instantly that the lively spark I had always seen in them was absent.
“I got hungry.” She murmured lifelessly. “Sorry.”
I was stunned and did not know what to say.
“Don’t be sorry!” I bellowed. I hadn’t meant to be harsh, but the surprise of seeing her our of bed combined with my insecurity had forced the wrong tone to escape from my lips, and I instantly wished that I could catch my words and shove them back down my throat.
“I mean, really, it’s okay.” I said in a much softer tone, hoping to repair my error.
“Thank you.” Her voice contained a flatness I had never heard from her before and she promptly returned her attention to the cereal. She chomped her way through about a third of the flakes in her bowl, and then lethargically pushed it away, stood up, and slunk back towards the bedroom. When she had reached the doorway, she turned back slightly and looked at me with hollow eyes.
“Do you think I should just kill myself today and get it over with, since I have nothing to live for?” she asked in a voice completely devoid of emotion.
I gasped for a breath as I panicked internally, while desperately attempting to maintain my outward poise.
“No, I would prefer if you didn’t kill yourself at all… and also if you didn’t end your sentences with prepositions.” I forced a shaky smile that I hoped did not betray my inner terror.
“Oh, alright then.” she stated, seemingly unaffected by both my feeble joke and the intensity of her question. “I think I’ll have vodka today then. The last two days were gin… and I’m sick of it.”
Then she went into the bedroom and closed the door.
I exhaled loudly and crumpled to the ground; I was completely horrified and confused by what had just occurred. I took a couple minutes to gather my composure, wiped the tears from my cheeks, stood up and headed out to the liquor store to buy a bottle of vodka and a bottle of rum. I didn’t like vodka… and after what had just happened, there was no way she was drinking alone tonight. I decided that I deserved an escape from reality myself.
We each worked through our bottles quite quickly that night. We didn’t bother with glasses; just lay in bed and drank directly from the bottle. We didn’t bother with words either. She didn’t have the ability to speak… and I had no idea what to say. The silence of our togetherness communicated more than enough, and the communion of intoxication formed a stronger bond than the deepest and most meaningful conversation.
About two-thirds of the way through her bottle of vodka, she finally spoke. She turned to me and blankly asked, “Do you believe in God?” She stared directly into my eyes, either unaware or unconcerned about the bizarre frankness of her question.
Caught off-guard and mostly drunk, I stumbled over my words. I didn’t quite know how to answer, but my mouth just started forming words. “Of course I do; we’re Catholics. We go to the same church, remember? St. Matthew’s? Father Dawson?”
“Yes… I know.” She sighed. “But that’s not what I meant. I meant, do you believe? Truly? In your heart? Do you know?”
The room was spinning far too quickly for me to really consider the question. Apparently the last week of binge drinking had greatly increased her alcohol tolerance, for she seemed completely unaffected.
“Well.” I spoke slowly, attempting to the best of my abilities to mask my drunkenness. “I’m not really sure. I surely don’t know, by any means. I mean, I don’t think we can completely know anything… anything we believe is just a good guess…but I’d guess no guess we can make about the God-thing is a good one… but I wonder if he’s there or if he’s real… but I really don’t feel like he is… it’s likely he stopped listening a long time ago if he is.” I paused, took a deep breath and realized I had no idea what had just spilled out of my mouth. “I’m sorry’” I half-laughed. “I’m really drunk right now.”
“I believe in God.” She said firmly. She seemed completely oblivious to my existence; it was as if she were talking to herself or to the wall. “Believe me, I’ve sat here all week trying to convince myself that he doesn’t exist or that he isn’t listening or that he’s just some force that created the world but now is off creating some other distant universe and has completely forgotten all about us. But I just couldn’t force myself to believe something I knew wasn’t true. I know in my heart that he is real and that he hears every single one of my prayers.”
There was a long, emotional silence as tears began to stream down her face.
“I hate him so much!” she finally burst, overwhelmed with emotion. “How could he just abandon me like this? He knew exactly what I wanted and had dreamed of for so long and he just didn’t love me enough to care at all about how any of this would affect me!”
I didn’t know if she was talking about the fiancée who had jilted her or the God who had disappointed her or if she was crying out in anger at both of them at the same time; all I knew was that my friend was utterly wrecked and my heart ached with love and compassion for her. I became overwhelmed with my own inadequacy in the situation. There was nothing I could say or do to even begin to fix anything; and at that moment I knew I would trade my eternal soul for the ability to take this pain from the girl I loved so long and so true.
At a complete loss for words, I pulled myself near to her and put my arms around her. She continued to sob, and her whole body began to shake with the ardency of her sorrow. My touch only seemed to intensify the pain; she began to shriek even louder the moment she felt my hand on her, and so I pulled her closer to me. I tried to hold her tight enough to keep her from shaking; to keep from hurting. For some reason I felt I could squeeze it all out of her, or that if I somehow held her close enough, I could protect her everything and there would be nothing in the world but me. But I could not hold her close enough! No matter how hard I squeezed, her tiny little body shook still and cries of indescribable anguish crept out from between her once-rosy lips.
Even in her misery, she was beautiful. The spark and life that had made her such a joy was gone, but the beauty and being of the friend I had known so many years remained. My heart screamed with hers, and her suffering was far too much for my fragility to bear. I needed her pain to cease (for her pain was my pain!) but I was too weak to shoulder the weight of both of our sufferings. I saw her pathetic figure, writing and weeping in my arms. Overwhelmed with my love and sympathy, I kissed her forehead and pulled her closer still. I kissed her again and again and again, and suddenly my lips began to steal down her cheeks. My mouth found hers and I kissed it firmly, but quickly. Then I withdrew, terrified. My heart was racing and I had never felt so wrong in my life. But I loved her and hated to see her pain! I knew not what to do, so I kept holding her and rested my chin on her shoulder, unable to do anything else.
She slowly reached her hand up, pulled my face back from her shoulder and held it in front of hers, as if she were inspecting it. She kept her hand on the side of my face. My heart pounded in my chest and I could not help but hope she felt the same burning curiosity and confusion that I did. She held my face there for what felt like an hour, and I remained still and breathless. Then she reached up her other hand and pulled my mouth down on top of hers. She kissed me with a passion I had never experienced before. She kissed me as if she was searching for an answer to an unsolvable problem and I alone could answer. I somehow could fix everything. I wanted to be in her; I wanted to be one with her—no! I wanted to be her soul. And so I kissed her back, even though I knew my tongue possessed no answers. But I for some reason hoped that maybe she had my answers. I lost who I was and got caught up in the emotion of who she was— and I still couldn’t get close enough! I needed to be closer—even closer still! — Until I was close enough to stop her pain and she close enough to relieve mine. But no matter how desperate and soulful the kiss became, nothing I did was enough. She was not close enough and I could feel her sorrow increase with each moment our mouths were met. I finally pulled away, gasped for air and instantly began to weep.
“I’m sorry!” I blurted. “I’m so, so sorry!”
I was not apologizing for the kiss; I didn’t regret it. I was apologizing for my complete inability to cure her; an inadequacy which destroyed me to acknowledge. She had been wrecked, and I—who loved her more fiercely than any human had ever loved another—could do nothing to fix her! I had offered her every piece of me—every single part of my body and soul—and it was still not enough.
“I’m sorry.” I desperately whispered, knowing that my offense was completely unforgivable.
“I know.” She said mechanically, for she knew exactly for what I was apologizing. Her voice was dry; everything in her life had utterly disappointed her and she was tired. She knew there was nothing left for which to hope. “I know.” She rolled over on her side, facing the wall away from my.
I fell asleep watching her back and when I awoke late the next morning, she had already gone. I searched the rest of my apartment, but she had truly left. On the table, she had left a note on a slightly crumbled napkin. It read:
“Don’t be sorry.
I love you.
Good-bye.”
I returned to my bed, finished the remainder of last night’s rum, and returned to the sweet denial of slumber.
It was the last I ever heard from her, and I made no attempt to find or contact her.
About a month—or maybe it was two—later, I read of her suicide in the newspaper. Since she had left me, I had searched the obituaries every day, my hands trembling as I turned the pages. When I found hers, my heart shattered from the overwhelmingly heavy feeling of loss I had never felt before. For the last month she had been as good as dead to me, but I at least had comfort in knowing that somewhere, for someone, she existed. But now, the one I had loved so dearly for so long no longer was. I had killed her; I was—I am! —the very worst of murderers; I failed to save her and so she died. She could not live, because I could not fix her, and so she died.
I went to the funeral mass and sat in the back, covering my guilt and shame with a veil so that her family would not recognize me. I woodenly listened as the priest offered no hope of eternal life for the poor lost corpse, and the desperate mourners penitently prayed for God—in his oh-so-infinite mercy— to grant the suicide the grace of purgatory. There was no hope in their voices, but they had no choice but to pray their faithless prayers. They loved her and could not bear to think of hell.
I did not indulge myself in tears; I knew I deserved the hollow ache that filled my chest that day and has never left me.
Three months after the funeral I met the man who would become my husband. I never mentioned my wrecked friend to him—never even spoke her name—and so for the past twenty years, he knew not that he married and loved a murderer. And I can bear the weight of this secret no more.
And so I wrote it all down, so that he would know.
And he will find tonight, splattered with my blood, beside my lifeless body, a note that reads:
“I am so sorry.
Sorry beyond anything my words can convey.
I am a failure to you and a murderer of the one I best loved.
I fear I will soon murder you too.
I see myself failing you more and more each day.
I love you, but it’s not enough.
I can no more bear this burden.
Forever good-bye.
Do not let this wreck you.”
Here I hold the gun—and if God be real—I shall certainly soon see my murdered love beside me in the flames of hell!