In the Darkness |
Issue 16
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In the darkness that I call my mind, there are voices, and many are speaking. When I was younger, one says, I would wake up and throw open the curtains, staring out at the day, breathing in the air as if trying to absorb life’s essence. I was just desperate, full of a desire to be out in the world, to be in it, to be of it.
Perhaps that’s what led us to this place, I echo. This rushing headlong into experience. The buzzing melee of sounds and emotions. Perhaps that is why I am here. I am here. The knowledge returns, a lead weight on my chest, pinning me down. I am lying in a bed, of sorts, and my hands are bound. I try to raise them but I am too weak. In hindsight it was an obvious trap, a perfect place for an ambush. I didn’t see it, of course, but why should I have? I was not in charge. I was not the sergeant. The sergeant. Danson? Danvers? Where is he now? There’s a distant voice. A scream? My ears are ringing, and everything is dull. Must be from where they beat me, around the head and in the ribs. Breathing in stings my side, and if I cough I know I will suffocate. The room is dark, too, everything grey. A little light sneaks through, somewhere on my right, trying desperately to help me, but I can’t blink away the confusion. Was I up before? I could swear I was, raging at the door with useless fists. Back when I was stronger. They came in then, and held me down, and-- The voice again, closer now. I can hear it, moaning like a child pretending to be a ghost. It is feeble and it annoys me. Instead of compassion, I feel contempt. I want to call out, to yell, to tell it to shut up! But all I can do is lie here, straining at my bonds. I wait for them to come. "He’s a lot worse lately, I’m afraid." Ross folds his hands together and squeezes, as he always does, unconsciously, when stressed. This isn’t the news he wanted, but it is the news he was expecting. At least that’s something, he tells himself, unsure if he’s being convincing. "Thank you for everything you do." "Of course." The nurse (Camilla? He tries to sneak a look at her name badge, but she’s turned away from him) proceeds him through the corridors he knows like a home. That smell is always there, disinfectant, and something else beneath the surface he avoids thinking of. They stop outside a door, speaking in low voices. Ross sneaks a glance at the name badge. Carrie. Shit, he thinks. Maybe I’m going to go the same way as Dad. Another part of him tells him not to worry, everyone forgets things from time to time. Yet another yells, pay attention to what is being said, dummy! He realizes he’s not sure what she’s said, so acts distracted. Or is it acting? She’ll understand, either way. Her face is expecting him to speak, so he does. "He was a soldier, you know. In the war. A prisoner," he says, almost by rote. Carrie nods, that same sombre nod. "Never used to talk about it, but sometimes… I guess you’d call them flashbacks. We’d hear shouts at night, bad dreams I think. Mum was the only one who could calm him down." Carrie says, "I’ll give you some privacy." "No… would you just…" He trails off, unsure of what he’s asking. Carrie knows, though. She smiles at him, opens the door. There’s a sound from the man in the bed, a sound that’s supposed to be a defiant shout but comes out like a whimper. "Good morning Mr Levante," Carrie says in a cheery voice. Ross wonders how she does it. All these people, fading like unwatered plants. Maybe it’s because it’s not her family. But it could be, one day. Or it could be her. The thought strikes him like a blow to the stomach. "Hello, Dad," he says as Carrie steps across the room and pulls the curtains back with a flourish. The day outside is overcast but bright, painting the room watercolor tones. The sound of dry leaves is his father breathing. Carrie is there by the bedside, one hand on his father’s shoulder. "It’s ok, Mr Levante, just breathe normally. Your son is here. Isn’t that nice?" In the bed, the man who was Ross’ father shrinks back from him, fear evident even in eyes clouded by cataracts. He speaks, almost too quietly to be heard. "I won’t tell you anything," he says. "Not a god damn thing…" Ross wipes his hands across his face, and sits down in the chair. Carrie finishes arranging the pillows, squeezes Ross's shoulder, and pads out. In the bed, Mr Levante moves, tries to raise his hands, mumbling. "Dad. It’s me. Ross," he says in a loud voice. His father’s eyes are glazed, searching the room. His body thrashes in slow-motion. Ross thinks of a blackbird with broken wings he brought home when he was seven, and put in a shoe box. The thing couldn’t seem to understand he was trying to help it. Every time he came near it would wiggle around, trying to appear threatening but just looking sad. Eventually, he gave up and put it back where he’d found it. When he walked past the spot the next day, the bird was gone. In the darkness that I call my mind, there are voices, and perhaps clues. No matter how long they keep me here, they’ll never break me, one says. You fool! says another. Open your eyes! How much longer will I be here? asks a third. Didn’t I escape this? Was I always here? Have I always been here? Oh yes, you’ve always been here, but not in this room. You are trapped in the confines of your mind, where we all reside. You can never be somebody else, but you can leave this room. Whose voice is that? Is it mine? I try to lift my arms but they are weak, or are they restrained? The people enter, and I try to yell at them. Then, there is a light. The light of the day, the light of the world. I want to be out in it again. That same burning desire, pushing me forward, pulling me out into the light. But now I am different, I am not what I was. I am too weak to move, and they are coming for me. End
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Richard A. Shury is a SF nerd who dabbles in the literary arts. He recently returned to New Zealand after haunting London for many years. He has stories available online, including in DreamForge Magazine, Parsec Ink, The Drabble, Roi Faineant, and After Dinner Conversation. He’s a part-time optimist.
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