I watch the world--I who am ever alone--from my fenestrated perch: the crumbling gallery atop the house of DuBois.
Confined within decaying walls of splintering lath and melting plaster lies a man crippled in body (but not spirit) since early manhood. I never had a chance, some might say. He didn't mean to push me down the spiral staircase in a fit of rage; nevertheless, that he did.
The poisoned mood he affected during a brutal, one-sided altercation is of no consequence now. I forgave him, but his remorse abode too great, I surmise, that fain would he never be to set eyes anew upon the friend he sought to destroy.
He could end my lonely and useless isolation and I willingly, gladly set his spirit free . . .
My love is greater than his grief.
How ever shall this, my immovable frame bridge the bottomless chasm that separates the one healed from him who resists forgiveness?