I am the Messenger
by Markus Zusak

the message

One afternoon, I hear what feels like the last knock at my door, and standing there, on my cracked front porch, is Audrey.

Her eyes dangle for a moment, and she asks to come in.

In the hallway, she falls back against the door and says, “Can I stay, Ed?”

I go to her. “Of course you can stay the night.” But she shakes her head and her dangling eyes finally fall. Audrey walks forward and reaches into me.

“Not for tonight,” she says. “For good.”

We sink to the floor of my hallway and Audrey kisses me. Her lips join up with mine, and I taste her breath and swallow and feel and lunge for it. It streaks me inside with streams of her beauty. I hold her yellow hair. I touch the smooth skin of her neck, and she keeps kissing me. She wants to.

When we finish, the Doorman walks to us and settles down at my side.

“Hey, Doorman,” Audrey says, and again her eyes stream. She looks happy.

The Doorman looks at both of us. He is the sage. He is the wisdom. He says, About bloody time, you two.

 

We stay in the hall for close to an hour and I tell Audrey everything. She listens intently as she pats the Doorman, and she believes me. I realize that Audrey has always believed me.

I’m about to relax completely when a final question slips inside me. It tries to get up but slips over again.

“The folder,” I say.

I get up and walk hurriedly to the lounge room. On my knees, I go through the folder incessantly. I sit there and comb through it. I rummage and plow among the loose papers.

“What are you doing?” Audrey asks. She’s come in and stands behind me.

I turn and look up at her.

“I’m looking for this,” I tell her. I wave my hand at both of us. “I’m looking for you and me, together.”

And Audrey only crouches down. She kneels with me and places her hand on mine to make me drop the papers.

“I don’t think it’s in there.” She says it softly. “I think, Ed…” Her hands hold me now gently on my face. The orange light of late afternoon is attached to her. “I think this belongs to us.”

 

It’s evening now, and Audrey and I share a coffee with the Doorman on the front porch. He smiles at me when he’s finished and falls into his normal gentle sleep by the door. Caffeine doesn’t affect him anymore.

Audrey’s fingers hold on to mine, the light remains a few moments longer, and I hear the words again from this morning.

If a guy like you can stand up and do what you did, then maybe everyone can. Maybe everyone can live beyond what they’re capable of.

 

And that’s when I realize.

In a sweet, cruel, beautiful moment of clarity, I smile, watch a crack in the cement, and speak to Audrey and the sleeping Doorman. I tell them what I’m telling you:

I’m not the messenger at all.

I’m the message.