“Tears in Heaven”

By Kyle Feuerbach

There is a little extra bounce in his step tonight, which confirms his belief that tonight will in fact be the greatest night of his life. He feels like he’s floating, instead of running. With smooth strides, relaxed arms, and rhythmic breathing he looks like a natural.  The automatic nature of running allows his mind to focus on finding the perfect word...balmy. Yeah, balmy. Nailed it, he thinks to himself. Then he repeats it again in his head, balmy. He’s proud of the adjective he came up with to describe tonight’s weather. He’s not very smart, so whenever he uses fancy words he feels intelligent. He once read that running makes people smarter. He completely misread the entire article; running increases attention span and reduces stress, but hasn’t been linked to increased intelligence.

This doesn’t stop him from telling every single person he meets in the breakroom at the factory about his newfound intelligence. He shows off his ever-expanding vernacular by crushing a children's word search each day during his thirty-minute lunch break. Sometimes he prints the adult word finds, but he only does those at home. They take several days to complete, because he has to look up most of the words to make sure they are actual words. Just this morning, he was mystified to discover kumquat was a real word. He thought for sure, it was the puzzle creators playing tricks. His focus shifts back to the weather, his app rated tonight’s run an 8 out of 10. He disagrees; perfect 10, he thinks. His pace quickens. Excitement launches him to another gear on his daily late night run. So perfect, in fact, he knows tonight will be the night he finally initiates contact with the love of his life. 

He slows his pace. Can’t get ahead of himself. The timing needs to be perfect for their rendezvous. Nice word. All this running is really working, he thinks. A wide smile spreads across his face as he checks his watch: 9:45 pm. She’ll be coming around the bend, any second now. As if on cue, she turns the corner. She’s a petite—curvy in all the right places—brunette, with lean legs. She’s wearing her typical attire: sports bra, running tights, with matching shoes. All Nike, all the time. That’s how she got her name, Nike. It’s all she wears. 

She bounds with a powerful, confident stride. Like all great athletes, it’s her discipline that makes her special. Despite all her positive qualities, he frowns because he knows she’s wearing headphones. Not safe, he thinks. With all the crazy people in the world today, a young lady should know better than to run alone at night with headphones. Now’s not the time, though. He doesn’t want to sour their first meeting with a lecture. No, he will save it for later. 

She doesn’t seem to notice him as she reaches the halfway point of a subtle fork in the trail. As she approaches, she is just a silhouette in the darkness. The light is obstructed by a wildflower nature preserve to her right and the tree lined twelve-foot fencing for a public golf course to her left. The street lights cannot penetrate the foliage from either direction. Brave girl.  Only a few meters to go, his heart starts pounding, his mouth runs dry, and his palms start to sweat. Calm down. Just breath, he thinks to himself as he starts counting his breaths trying to regain control. It’s always about control. Then he starts to re-work the plan one more time in his mind, but is interrupted when he sees a figure blitz Nike from the side, “Look out,” he shouts, but it’s too late. 

The attacker has her and is dragging her into the nature preserve. The attacker must have covered her mouth, because she didn’t make a sound. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would have believed she just vanished. He’s done this before, he thinks. 

This is it. This is his chance to prove himself worthy. His chance to be the true hero to his damsel in distress. He launches into a full sprint. All his training has been for this one moment. He hears a struggle in the brush and a muffled scream. 

“Nike, I’m coming,” he shouts as he reaches the broken stems where Nike was pulled into the preserve. He hesitates for a moment, his mind racing. You can do this. You have to do this, it’s for her honor, he thinks as he stands just a few feet away from the struggle.  He knows if he can’t save her, the message boards will be ripe with criticism and judgment against Nike. They will blame her. They’ll say she was stupid, she brought this on herself, or she should’ve known better. Not one person on those message boards will be nearly as critical of the disgusting man that violated the poor girl. He won’t even get one mention. All eyes and all blame will rest solely with the victim. Not his lady; not today, he thinks as he powers into the preserve. 

It only takes a few steps before he reaches them. Once he does, he jumps on the attacker’s back, wrapping his legs around the attacker’s midsection. In addition to running, he also watches a lot of MMA. Despite the lack of formal training, he sees himself as a lethal weapon. 

The attacker throws him off his back and starts pounding him in the face with vicious force. This guy must be special forces, no normal man could counter my kung-fu grip so easily, he thinks as the attacker continues to throw sloppy, yet, effective punches. The attacker is beating him profusely. 

When the typical method of turtling up into a ball and yelling, “STOP,” doesn’t work, he’s fresh out of ideas.  So he just lays there, taking it. He might wear himself out, he thinks as a punch lands directly on his ear. The impact shoots a ringing through his ear and flashes of light in his vision. It feels like the ringing is reverberating through his teeth. Before he can process the fact he used a word like reverberating while sustaining a traumatic brain injury, he absorbs another punch to the temple.  As the last glimmer of hope’s just about to be punched out of him, the beating stops. He hears an animal cry, and when his eyes clear, he sees Nike jump on the attacker’s back. 

“Wat’h ou’, he’s well t’ained,” he slurs as he fights the dizziness and pain pulsating from his brain. He tries to stand. 

“Wow,” he says as he watches Nike dig her perfectly manicured index finger into his right eyeball. She pushed harder and in the dim light, he can see that more than half her finger is embedded in his eye. 

“Eww, gross,” he says as he watches in dismay. There’s no coming back from that one. 

Then he sees a long shiny object fall from the attacker’s hand.  Just as his brain processes the knife on the ground, the attacker grunts and tosses Nike over his shoulder to the ground with a loud popping sign. Nike screams in pain. Hearing her scream snaps him out of his daze and he bull rushes the attacker. 

Knowing the man’s special defense training, he has no choice but to up his intensity from maim to kill.  Adrenaline and instinct take over as he slaps the attacker across his gouged eye with an open palm, then unleashes a kick to the balls with all the strength of a second-string JV punter. As the attacker drops to his knees, he is defenseless from shot to his nads and, presumably, humiliated for being slapped in the face by a grown man. Once the attacker’s knees hit the ground, he drops his head back as he tries to scream in pain, but nothing comes out of his mouth. The shock to the system halted his breath. The scream is lodged somewhere deep within his windpipe, and won’t be released anytime soon. 

As he sees the attacker’s vulnerability, several things flash through his mind in a blur of images: his plans with Nike, her pain, his pain, the attacker’s shattered nutsack, and finally, Road House. Without thinking, he distorts his fingers into a claw. He blinks for a moment---sees Patrick Swayze shirtless, glistening with sweat, as his perfectly plucked mullet flows in the wind---he knows what to do. His hand shoots for the attacker’s throat, he latches and pulls away with a ferocious grunt. 

He stumbles back a few feet, gasping for air, and holding his still clawed right hand parallel to his shoulder. Swayze style, he thinks. Then he turns his head to look at his hand, but it’s empty. Once again his grip strength has failed him. Aside from some skin under his nails—forensic evidence—his hand is completely empty. 

Still shocked by his failure, he thinks, who knew it was so hard to rip someone’s throat out? 

“Swayze’s full of shit,” he says. 

When he looks back at the attacker, he gets an idea. He doesn’t need to rip out his throat, just collapse his airway. The attacker’s now on his side, still holding his nuts. He slowly approaches the attacker, and takes his left hand to push the attacker's right shoulder back to the ground. This opens up the attacker's chest and stomach, he drops on his weight onto the attacker's stomach, anchoring him down. The pressure further restricts the attacker’s breathing and he instinctively tries to breathe by tilting his head back, exposing his throat once again. With a closed fist, he sends a crisp punch to the attacker’s throat. The impact causes the attacker to let go of his crotch and grab for his throat, as if grabbing his neck will reopen his trachea; it won’t. 

This asshole may deserve to suffer a prolonged and painful death, but there’s no time. So he decides to finish him off. Mortal Kombat pops into his mind and he says, “Finish him.”

He pops up into his best Bruce Lee stance, and lets out a long, “WHAAAAAAAAA,” as he lifts his leg to heel stomp the attacker. The first two stomps only seem to knock him unconscious. The third dislodges the jaw from his skull. The next one snaps the mandible in half and shoots teeth across the ground. After two more stomps, it feels like his foot is now making contact with the ground through his partially crushed nasal cavity, so he stops. Despite the lack of light, he can see the attacker’s tongue spasming as a stream of blood pours from the disfigured skull. The attacker’s right leg jumps a little, probably a natural reaction to the trauma, but it startles him nonetheless.

As he struggles to catch his breath, he turns back toward Nike. In the dim light, he can see she has a compound fracture between her right knee and ankle. She’s crying with her left knee tucked to her chest. She’s holding the knife in her left hand and her right hand keeps reaching for the bone poking through her skin. She can’t bring herself to touch it, it’s as if touching the injuring makes it more real. 

He slowly walks over to her and he believes their eyes meet for the first time. His face flushes, he can feel his pulse in his neck. The excitement is almost too much to contain. 

Unsure what to say, he’s just standing over her. She says, “Thank you, so much. He came out of nowhere, I...I don’t know what I would’ve done had you not,” she pauses, unable to finish her thought before continuing, “thank you. I can’t thank you enough.” 

Flattered by her admiration, he puffs out his chest a little; proud of himself. “It’s my pleasure, my lady,” he says, trying to sound cool under pressure. 

“Here, let me have a look at that leg,” he says kneeling down at her side. 

She sets the knife down as she turns her attention to her leg, “Don’t touch it.” He pulls his hands back, like he touched a hot stove. He’s embarrassed by his reaction, and tries to save face. So he lies, “I’m an ER doctor, at Northwestern, so you’re in good hands.” Regaining his composure, he tries to imagine how a doctor would carry himself. He clears his throat and is about to start talking with more bass, but stops himself. Instead, he doesn’t say anything as he stares at her broken leg, pretending to be deep in thought. 

For a moment he is just sitting with Nike in the dark. Neither one speaking, just two lovers in the park. Aside from the bone sticking three inches out of her skin and the dead man with a dislocated jaw and splattered brain matter, it’s as romantic as any rom-com. A true meet cute between two lovestruck individuals, brought together by fate, meeting for the first time, he thinks to himself as he stares blankly in the direction of the lake. 

Nike seems confused and for the first time alarmed by his behavior. She tenses a bit, but like so many before her doesn’t fully trust her instincts. If she did, she would’ve grabbed the knife, instead she found ways to rationalize her feelings. She blames it on recent events and assumes she is just feeling uneasy. Then she remembers her phone. The headphones are gone, lost in the struggle, but she prays her phone is still in the pouch of her running belt strapped around her waist. With her left hand, she feels her phone. Please don’t be broken, she thinks as she pulls it from her belt. 

At the sametime, he says, “Do you have a phone? I left mine at home...oh good, here let me.” 

He reaches for the phone as she hands it over, not noticing the black gloves he’s just slid on. He dials 911, and again gives her a look that makes her skin crawl. Her brain is screaming for her to run or fight, but any movement shoots a fire of pain from her leg that stops all thoughts of fleeing. 

Frozen, she keeps her eyes on him and hears him talking to the dispatcher, “Hello ma’am, how are you this evening?” He winks to her and smiles before continuing, “My emergency? Yes, yes, of course. I found some dead bodies. Two of them to be exact. I was out running on the lakefront trail, when I literally bumped into them. I slipped in the blood. My legs are covered. It’s terrible. Just terrible. One of the victims is a man that appears to have been beaten to death. The other is a young woman, she appears to have been out on a run and got into a struggle. Her leg is broken, she has cuts on her face, and a knife is sticking out of her side,” he pulls the phone away from his ear and makes a flapping mouth gesture with his left hand as he whispers, “yap, yap, yap, yap.”  He laughs to himself before he turns his attention back to the dispatcher, pretending the signal’s gone bad. “What? Hello, are you still there? Sorry ma’am, it appears we are breaking up… maybe you should triangul...ate...location...” he says, setting the phone down, without disconnecting. He wants them to trace the call, he just doesn’t have any more time to talk. 

As he’s talking, she is just sitting there frozen. Her brain’s unwilling to believe what’s happening. She tries to speak, maybe shout for help, but before she can muster the strength his gloved finger touches her lips, 

“Shhhhh. No need to speak, my love. I know. Your eyes say it all. I love you too, he says. 

Then the air leaves her body as she feels fire sheeting across her skin as her left lung is punctured by the knife carving its way through her ribcage. To make matters worse, he slides the hand touching her lips down to her throat and begins to squeeze. Her eyes bulge, like they’re trying to flee the sockets. She struggles to pry free from the hand around her neck, but her efforts are futile. With a shattered leg, punctured lung, and a large man strangling her, she knows it’s over for her. Knowing the end is near, doesn’t stop her brain from wondering, why her?

There will be no answers on this night, at least none that help save her from imminent death. With the tears filling her eyes as she struggles to breath, she can see his lips quiver; he’s crying. WTF? Why’s he crying? she wonders.  A chill rolls across her skin as her blood flows from her body. She feels lightheaded. All she wants to do is lay down for a bit, then everything will be okay. Someone will come for me, she thinks. I just need to rest. As her head hits the ground, moments before she blacks out, she has one final thought, did he call me Nike? Then she closed her eyes, for the last time. 

He releases her throat.  He can hear the dispatcher is still on the line, “Hello? Hello, sir? Can you hear me. Do either of them have a pulse? Hello? Help is on the way sir. Hello? Is anyone there?” Tears a flowing down his cheeks, this is always the part he hates the most. He hates having to say goodbye to the women he loves, especially as their love was just beginning to bloom. Better to end things now, than wait until the love dies---which, given enough time, always fades to nothing before being discarded like trash. Frustration takes over and he smashes the phone, “Shut up, damn it. Just shut the hell up. Can’t I get a moment’s peace to grieve for god’s sake?” he says, as he stomps the phone two more times. 

He pauses for one final look, he knows the police response time at this time of night is around thirty-three minutes, but he doesn’t want to chance it. In the final few moments, he thinks to himself, she was the one. 

This type of connection takes time to take hold. He knows it will take weeks, maybe even a month or so, before he’s ready to find another. In the meantime, he’ll hold onto the memory of her beauty and their undeniable love for each other. The images eventually fade, they always do, but it gives him a sense of purpose. After all, he’s an old-school romantic; a man devoted to chivalrous love. 

He finally knows it’s time to leave, so he takes a few steps into the preserve until he finds his keepsake: headphones. He pulls out his phone, he lied to Nike, he always has his phone. After all, they live in a city. Cities are full of dangerous people, he never knows when he may need to call the police. They don’t take long to find. He cleans off the dirt from the earbuds and places them in his ears. Then he removes his gloves and finds a few rocks to hold them down. Once the rocks are secured inside each glove, he tosses them into the lake. 

Once the gloves are out of sight, he turns his attention back to his playlist. He already has the perfect song ready to go. It’s the same song every time he loses a love: Tears In Heaven by Eric Clapton. As soon as the soft melody begins, a lump lodges itself in his throat, his eyes overflow, and all the emotional pain comes spilling out of him as he starts his three mile run back home. 

He doesn’t remember the whole story behind the song, but he’s confident they come from the pain inflicted by the loss of a woman. The lyrics communicate directly to his soul as he runs home, singing along as the music gently flows him his new headphones. As he leaves the park, his tears have slowed and he thinks, he gets me, Eric Clapton truly gets me. He wipes his eyes as he picks up the pace. For the briefest of moments, he feels a little less alone. As he approaches the front steps of his building, he sees a young brunette jogging his direction. His heart races as the perfect word for this moment enters his mind, serendipitous. As she passes, he smiles and says, “Well, hello lululemon.”