"Look"
Margie’s hands were cold as she waited for him. They told her it might take awhile for the guards to bring him through all the security and into the visiting room.
As she heard the buzz of the door’s alarm, she suddenly felt the desire to run away as fast as she could, past the guards, past all the locks and bolts, past everything about the prison.
I am here to get my life back, she thought to herself as she heard the guard slowly push open the door. He can’t hurt you here.
She felt blood rising to her head and looked down at the floor as the guard brought him to the chair across from her and sat him down. As she continued to look at the floor, she heard the click of the handcuff to the chair.
He can’t hurt you here, he can’t hurt you here, he can’t hurt you here.
* * * *
It had been two years since he altered Margie’s life, but the memory of that night was still embedded in Margie’s memory.
She had been working late at the magazine. It had seemed like a normal night to Margie.
Margie looked up as she heard Jenny, her secretary, knock on her office door. She smiled at the girl, recognizing her eagerness to be done for the week.
“Do you need me for anything else, Miss Hunter?”
“No, Jenny, you go on home. I’ll see you Monday.”
Jenny smiled as she put on her coat. “Enjoy your weekend, Miss Hunter.”
“You too, Jenny.”
Margie turned back to her work, trying to convince herself she would enjoy her weekend much more if she finished now instead of having to come back over the weekend. Truman had promised to take her to his country house, and she wanted to be able to enjoy it without worrying about work.
She looked up at the clock awhile later and blinked.
“How is it already nine o’clock?” she mumbled to herself as she reached for her bag and turned out the light. Realizing she had already missed the last trolley of the night, she resigned herself to walking home.
As she walked outside, she shivered slightly. The days were getting shorter and the weather was starting to turn cold. She pulled her coat tighter around her and looked down at the ground.
She hadn’t even noticed him as he came out of the shadows and began to walk behind her.
* * * *
He can’t hurt you here, he can’t hurt you here, he can’t hurt you here.
Margie said this over and over to herself as she waited for the jail guards to leave the room. She continued looking at the floor as she heard the guards walk away and shut the door behind them, leaving her alone with him.
Neither of them made a sound. Margie looked at her hands and saw they were shaking. She started to reach for a cigarette, but then decided against it. No, she thought. I need to do this on my own. He can’t hurt you here.
Margie knew she would eventually have to look at him. She didn’t come there to sit and look at the floor, she came to try to move on.
You’re here to get your life back, she said to herself, forcing herself to raise her head and look at him.
He can’t hurt you here.
* * * *
Her attacker’s trial had taken every last ounce of strength Margie had. She didn’t even know if she could make it through its entirety at times. But Truman told her she was strong enough.
Margie had first met Truman at a dinner party, before the crime. She hated parties, but somehow she was always talked into going to them. She knew it would always end up with the host of the party dragging her around, introducing her to everyone important, showing her off. Margie was the head editor at Image, the hottest fashion magazine of 1950, or so said the critics. Margie was proud of her success and had worked hard to be where she was, but she hated being showcased at parties.
She had managed to escape the hostess for a few moments and found relief standing on the back patio, just looking up at the stars. She didn’t even see Truman standing not far from her near the patio stairs, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other until he commented on the beautiful night’s sky. When Margie turned to look at him, he smiled at her. He looked so peaceful, Margie was comforted just by looking at him. She knew right then they were going to be great friends.
But that was before. Before she had decided to walk home late one night. Before he had jumped out of the shadows and attacked her. Before her life was shattered.
She looked for Truman now as she sat in the witness stand, waiting for the lawyer to begin with his questions. She saw him sitting in the middle of the courtroom, his face encouraging her to speak, but his eyes revealing the sadness inside. It was enough somehow.
“Miss Hunter, I know it’s difficult for you, but can you tell us what happened on the night of November fourth?”
Margie placed her hands carefully in her lap. She breathed deeply, telling herself it was alright, that she had to do this, that she could do this.
“I had been at my job late that night, working on a deadline,” Margie began quietly. “I was the head editor of Image magazine. I’m currently taking some time off right now.”
“How did the accused approach you?”
“I missed the last trolley because of the hour, so I decided to just walk back to my apartment. I don’t live very far away from my office, and it was a nice night. He walked out from the shadows and followed me.”
“Tell us about your previous interactions with the accused,” the lawyer said, sensing her reluctance.
“We rode the same trolley every day. He would strike up a conversation with me every so often, but it was never anything more than casual chitchat. I wouldn’t say that we knew each other.”
“How did he know you would be there that night?”
“He said he had been waiting for me for awhile. He knew my schedule from the trolley, so he knew when I usually returned home. He also knew that I sometimes walked home. I tried to walk past him, but he said he had been waiting too long for me to just walk away. He said he deserved to be rewarded for his patience.”
Margie could feel her cheeks begin to burn. She continued to look straight ahead.
“I screamed once, but he held a knife to my face and reminded me he had the power to hurt me however he wanted.”
“At any point did the accused release his hold on you?”
Margie tried to keep her eyes focused on the back of the room, but she couldn’t. She turned and looked at her attacker. She wanted to see some kind of emotion in him, maybe hatred or anger, but all she saw was apathy. His eyes never faltered from looking straight at her. It was too much for Margie, and she turned back to look at the lawyer as she spoke again.
“When he was done with me.”
The lawyer returned Margie’s gaze for a long moment, as if reassuring her that he knew what was deserved.
“No further questions, your honor.”
* * * *
He can’t hurt you here. He can’t hurt you here. He can’t hurt you here.
Margie looked at him as they sat together in the jail. He had changed since Margie had last seen him at the trial a year ago. The scruff she remembered around his face had turned into a full-fledged beard. His hair, which she remembered as wavy and tousled, had become an overgrown mass of tangles. And his eyes.
Margie remembered when she had looked at his face during the monstrous act. His eyes were so alive and so on fire she thought then that he could somehow bore a hole right through her skin.
But now she saw nothing in his eyes. Only deadness.
Yet somehow it was something more than deadness. It was utter hopelessness. His eyes were holes and nothing more.
He can’t hurt you anymore.
* * * *
Margie had thought that she would be done with him after the trial. When he was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison, she thought that would be it. She thought she could move on with her life and be rid of him for forever.
But she couldn’t.
She needed to forgive him before she could move on.
It had taken her months to realize this, but it was true. She needed to be able to look at him and feel no hatred towards him. She didn’t know how, but she needed to see him again.
So she asked Truman for help.
“It’s just that you know so many people,” Margie said to Truman. “I know you can look in that little book of yours and find someone who can get me in.”
“I just don’t understand why you want to see him,” Truman said. “Surely you don’t want to talk to him.”
Margie sat down next to Truman on the loveseat, her eyes looking strained and tired. She laid her head on his shoulders and looked straight ahead at the fireplace, watching the fire burn. She didn’t say anything for a few moments as they both just stared into the fire.
“After the rape, I had to find a different way to think about him. He interrupted every thought I had. At times I wondered if he would ever let me go. I had to find a way to make him different than me, as if that would somehow excuse what he did. So I started thinking about him as a monster.”
Margie stood up and began pacing again. She seemed anxious, unable to stay still. She walked over to the table and took a cigarette from her case, her hands shaking a little as she lit it.
She turned back towards Truman, but in the growing darkness of the day, Truman could only see Margie’s eyes, lit up by the orange glow of her cigarette. He expected to see tears or hurt in her eyes, but all he saw was numbness.
“I read something the other day about forgiveness,” she began, turning towards the window as she smoked. “It said that forgiveness makes us stronger, makes us able to move on. Maybe not to forget, but to somehow reach a place of hope. I want that, Truman. I want to have hope that I can move on. Maybe forgiveness will give me that.”
The reality of what Margie wanted to do suddenly hit Truman dead in the face. “He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness.”
Margie turned around again, and Truman saw a spark come into her eyes. For just a moment, he felt as if he were looking at the old Margie, the feisty, passionate girl she used to be.
“I’m not doing it for him,” she said. “He will never deserve for me to forgive. But I deserve for me to forgive.”
“Will you tell him that you forgive him when you see him?”
“I don’t plan on saying a single word to him when I see him. I just plan on looking in his eyes and telling myself that I forgive him. Then I can leave and be rid of him.”
Margie turned back to the window and took another drag of her cigarette.
“I need to look into his eyes and feel no hatred towards him. I can feel hatred towards the monster maybe, but not towards the man, whatever Man is still left inside of him. That’s how I’ll move on.”
Margie took one final drag of her cigarette before putting it out. She placed it in the ashtray, then stood awkwardly for a moment before walking back over to Truman and kneeling in front of him on the plush carpet. She placed her elbows on his knees and rested her head in her hands, looking up at him.
“You don’t have to say you understand me, sweet. But please, please say you will help me.”
Truman took Margie’s chin in his hand and kissed her forehead. “Of course I will, my dear.”
Truman took Margie’s chin in his hand and kissed her forehead. “Of course I will, my dear.”
* * * *
So Truman had worked his magic and gotten her in. No one really understood it, but Margie didn’t need anyone to understand. She understood.
And now here she was, sitting across from the man who had nearly destroyed her.
He can’t hurt you now. You have to tell him.
This thought made Margie nearly jump. Tell him she forgave him? No, that’s not what she was here for. She was here to forgive him for herself, not for him. Truman was right, he didn’t deserve her forgiveness.
But maybe that wasn’t the point.
Margie looked at him again. She didn’t know what she had expected to see, but it wasn’t this. His eyes told that he was dead inside.
Margie knew then, as she looked at this man who had taken her innocence and so much more that she couldn’t go on living without trying to give him life. He may have taken her innocence, but she realized in that moment that she had also taken his.
“I forgive you.”
He made no movement, no sign that he even heard her speak. But Margie didn’t need him to do anything; she had everything she needed.
She stood and walked towards the door, ready to leave him behind forever.
“Why?”
She stopped, her hand already on the doorknob. Turning her head back towards him, she saw something flash in his eyes for just a moment.
“Because I’m human,” Margie said, looking straight into his eyes.
It flashed again. She wondered if it might be hope.
Turning back to the door, she opened it and walked outside, past the guards, past the locks and bolts, past everything about the prison.
Margie felt the warmth of the sun hit her face as she walked out of the prison.
