The Visitor

by Jesse Traynham
3-4 Minute read
See the author's note at the end after reading.

The knock at the door was so faint, I hardly heard it. It was late. I cracked the door and opened it slowly. Standing before me was a woman so battered and beaten that I was unsure what to say or do. Her eye was blackened, her clothes were ragged, and her face was muddied with dirt and tears. She guarded her belly as she leaned against the door frame. I could not tell who she was.

I quickly wrapped my arm around her waist. As we struggled over to the couch, I kicked the door shut with the heel of my foot. She grimaced as she sat.

"Hold on. Let me get some things." I told her.

I made my way to the kitchen and fished out a washcloth. While the water was warming, I gathered some gauze, tape, bandaids, and an ice pack.

I slammed into the kitchen wall on my way back, but that was nothing compared to what this woman must have experienced.

I started to hand her the warm rag, but she was in no shape to use it. I gently wiped her forehead. I moved down to her left cheek, across her nose, and to her other cheek. I finished with her lips and chin. The gentle cleaning revealed a delicate young lady. She smiled at me through a tender wince.

"Thank you," she said, looking into my eyes.

She seemed familiar, but I could not place her. Was she a neighbor? Someone I met a long time ago? Do we have a mutual friend?

"Is there someone I can call for you?"

"No, "she said. "I'm here to see you."

"I am sorry. You look familiar, but I do not believe we have met."

"We have met several times. I'm surprised you don't remember me, though I do get that a lot."

"Who did this to you?"

"It was Desmond."

"You mean Old Man Spare down the street?"

"Yes, that's the guy."

"I see him everywhere. At the grocery store. At the gas station. I wave to him when I drive home most days." I said. "I even saw him at church last week. I thought he was a friend."

"You understand that being friends with a man like Desmond is harmful, right? I mean, after a while, he takes up all your time and won't take a hint," she said.

"I am aware, but he is a pretty decent friend. He's always there when I need him."

"I know." She said. "In the end, he will let you down. Maybe we could become better friends now."

"That is fine and all, but I still do not know who you are."

I am getting a bit agitated. Why is it she will not tell me her name? I offer her the ice pack and motion toward her tender belly. She takes it and hesitantly applies it.

"It's Hope. My name is Hope. I thought, given time, you would recognize me. We've been friends for years." she said.

Like a fog lifting on a cool morning, I remembered. I had been looking for Hope for a while, but I could not find her. Eventually, I stopped looking, and I forgot.

"I thought I had lost you," I told her.

"You never lost me; you just forgot for a while. I am always around, but sometimes you have to look harder than others."

As we talked, the hour hand sped round countless times. It turns out; Hope was wise beyond her years. We spoke of dreams I had forgotten entirely. I had given up on many of those dreams, figuring I could never achieve them. I learned a lot from her that night. We became good friends again.

"Ok. We have got to do something about Old Man Spare. We cannot just let him treat you like this. Should we call the police?"

"What you have to understand about Desmond Spare is he will always be miserable. It's just part of who he is. He will never be happy. He doesn't have that capacity. If you aren't careful, he will drag you down the same path too. We should just let him live in his self-pity." she said.

"If that is what you want to do, then we can, but he really should not act that way."

"I know. It's not fair. How about this: anytime you hear from him, give me a call. Instead of spending time with him, you and I can spend some time together." She said.

"I think that sounds like a great idea."

Sunlight peeked through the curtains. Had we talked all night long? I do not remember feeling this optimistic in so long. I had confidence in my future.

I felt like we could keep talking indefinitely, but we both knew it was time to stop.

"I must go now," she said. "Thank you for being so hospitable. You have been a friend to me when I needed one." She got up and hobbled toward the door.

"When you first knocked on my door, I did not recognize you," I told her. "I am grateful that you did."

As I opened the door for her, we briefly embraced. Then she disappeared into the day. I noticed Old Man Spare down the street checking his mailbox, which read "D. SPARE" in gothic lettering on the side. He waved at me, but I did not reciprocate.

Author's Note

While recently cleaning off some hard drive space, I came across a short story  I wrote in 2016. I liked the story, but it needed bunches of work. It lacked "showing" and was more of a barebones concept than a story. I will post the original 2016 version later this week.

The year 2016 was an odd year for me. I remember thinking at some point that "Hope" sure had taken a beating that year. I liked the idea of personifying "Hope" and playing with the idea of "losing hope" and "forgetting about hope" as translated into said personification. When I began to wonder who would hurt "Hope" so bad, the idea of "Despair" came to mind. Once I looked up the definition, I was sure it was the correct choice: the complete loss or absence of hope.

I know 2020 and 2021 have left a lot of people feeling hopeless. I hope this short little story can remind them that Hope is there. Sometimes you just have to look a little harder than others.