Page 117 of Dirty Chorus

There’s a hot pain going up my arm as the nurse put something in the IV. Everything blurs again, swirling all around, the colors all dissolving back into nothing.

Chapter 53

Noah

Father John greets me near the altar, hands folded, his smile soft “You doing okay?” he asks.

“Yeah...” I reply dryly.

“If you ever need to talk, we’re here. Always.” He presses a few pamphlets into my hand. Coping with Grief, Finding Light in Loss, Faith Through Pain. They smell like paper and pity.

“Thanks,” I mumble, stuffing them into my back pocket before I can even look at them. I grab the cleaning trolley locked in the janitor's closet. The metal wheels squeak as I push it down the hall and outside.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead as I head into the first set of bathrooms. Cleaning them as I usually do. I start with the sinks, sleeves pushed up, rag in hand. The motion’s automatic – spray, wipe, rinse, repeat. It’s the only kind of rhythm I have left. I empty the trash bins next, the plastic rustling loud in the empty room, and then I get to the stalls. My hand hesitates on the first door.

It’s the one. Hers. The one she used to draw in, all the sayings, all the jokes, all the stupid pictures, even a character of Jesus peeing on the word sin. I met her in this stall, cleaned up the constant mess she left me, and I even kissed her in this stall knowing she would be the one who would break me right down the middle. The hinge creaks as I push it open. My breath stops cold as soon as I step in.

Across the back of the stall door, in bold black Sharpie, are words. I step closer. The world narrows. The air feels thick, almost heavy enough to choke on.

Please forgive me.

He’s going to hurt you if I don’t end it.

I can’t lose you. I’m sorry.

It will never be a lie.

For a long moment, I just... stare. My body forgets how to move. My lungs forget how to pull air. My pulse is out of wack, it doesn't even know how to beat anymore. All I hear is blood sloshing in my arteries and silence. My vision blurs. I blink hard, but the words smear together. She wrote this. Here. I reached out wanting the ink to still be wet.

I stumble back a step, my shoulder hitting the stall divider. The rag slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a wet smack. I press the heel of my hand to my chest, like I can hold something inside before it breaks. It doesn’t work.

I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb trembling as I open the camera. The flash catches the ink, makes it shine. I take a picture, then another, even though my hand won’t stop shaking. I can’t leave it there, but I also don’t have the heart to clean it. I stumble out of the stall grabbing the rag again, spray the cleaner, and start to scrub everything else other than what she wrote. If I clean it, then her last words will be forever erased, and I can’t be the one that erases them from existence.

I hurry up, and clean much faster than I usually do. The only thing in my mind is to drive to the police station. I'm not sure what I would say, or if they would even be willing to look at the picture I took. It may not be worth anything. There’s no way for me to prove it’s her, and they might say it could be anyone, even if I know that deep down inside my soul she wrote this to me.

When I get there, I’m just told to sit down. A vending machine buzzes in the corner. The blue plastic chairs are cold, biting through my jeans. I sit, still holding my phone. The photo’s open on the screen. Her handwriting glows under the harsh light. I keep running my thumb over it as if it would bring her back and she’s just on the other side of the doors.

Eventually, an officer steps out, middle-aged, tired eyes, notepad in hand. “You said you had information about Charlotte Henderson?”

I nod. My voice cracks when I start talking, “You might think I'm crazy.”

“I’m sure whatever information you have will be useful,” the officer says.

“We were dating.”

“Okay...” He starts writing it down. “And who are you?” He points the back of the pen in my direction.

“Noah Samuel.”

The pen taps on his notepad. “You got identification?”

“Yeah...” I reach into my back pocket pulling out my wallet, flipping it open. I use a thumb to push out the card and hand it over to him. He barely takes a glance at it before handing it back over to me.

“So what d’ya got?” he asks.

“Well, my band was playing at the concert that night. I think... I think her ex-boyfriend, Brody, might’ve hurt her.”

“Mmhmm, okay. Why might you think that?” he asks as he continues to write on his notepad.