What the Blue Cup Proves

I am most afraid that the cup will mean nothing. That I carried it through a locked gate, injured myself for it, and Ruth will still die without knowing it reached the right hands. That would be cruel in a way I cannot argue with.

When I reached through, I was not thinking clearly. I was thinking, If I can get this to Nia, then perhaps I am doing something real. The coat caught, my shoulder took the punishment, and I still cared more about the cup than about myself. I want to be brave enough to call that noble, but mostly I was desperate.

I keep looking at the photographs. Gideon held up the keys like a magician proving there was nowhere hidden. Nia stepped back. I wanted to hate him for it, but the thing that upset me most was that I could not tell whether she recognized the lie.

My mother called about the house. I rubbed the bruise until it became harder to ignore, then gave her the careful voice I use for people who are frightened of being helped. She asked what I was doing, and I said work. There are so many ordinary lies between us now that one more felt easy. That made me miss her, which was inconvenient.

Tonight the blue cup is beside me, too bright and too deliberate. I want it to be evidence. I want Ruth to wake and know someone tried. But what if wanting to help someone is mostly another way of refusing to look at my own life?