Deeper than the Darkest Night

Submitted into Contest #219 in response to: Set your story in a type of prison cell.... view prompt

20 comments

Contemporary Fiction Sad

Waking is my nightmare. When I open my eyes, there is nothing and for the briefest moment, I am drowning, lost in the prison of this endless and suffocating void. I scream, but the sound is stolen from me. I am buried alive in the unrelenting blackness that is deeper than the darkest night.

Then the reality crashes back into my brain as my flailing hand makes sharp contact with human flesh. Small hands press against my chest and face, while unheard whispers sizzle over my cheeks. It’s then that I remember; I’m blind and deaf, the cruel consequences of a mission gone awry, a mission I can’t even recall.

The most agonising part is that I dream in colour. When I’m asleep, I can actually see, and I can hear. It’s the best part of my day, my sanctuary, and I don’t care what my dreams contain, even if they’re nightmarish. The sensation of being whole again, a complete man with all senses intact, is addictive.

Lucy is the one flicker of light in my unending darkness, although how she endures it, is something that I can’t understand. Each time I’m lost in the terror of waking to the darkness, she is there. I know I’ve hurt her in my panic; my hands and fists have lashed out in that confused state between dream and reality, and I know she has been caught in the crossfire. Friendly fire? Oh god, every time I hurt her, a part of me dies anew. I vowed to love and protect this woman, but who protects her from me, the madman of the morning?

I’m a prisoner of this affliction, trapped within my own mind, dependent upon others for my every need. And while I’m thankful for Lucy, I also resent her. She can see, she can hear, while I am reduced to the silence of sub-humanity. I can do nothing on my own. From the second I awaken until the moment I sleep, she’s my everything. She picks out my clothes, bathes and shaves me, guides me to the bathroom. I’m sure she’d piss for me if she could, given that I can’t even aim correctly. She places food in my hand, toast for breakfast. I can manage that, though coffee demands two hands. I will never take the woman I love out for a romantic dinner again. Eating is a messy business, and I wear much more than lands in my mouth. But she never complains, or at least, I never hear her. She could be cursing me with every breath and I’d remain oblivious.

Lucy helps me dress, holds the clothing out to me as I struggle into loose-fitting pants and a pullover shirt—no buttons, for they are impossible. It’s as if I’ve regressed to infancy or become a demented octogenarian. Such is my life.

“Shoes?” I ask, holding my hands out to the blackness. Even though I can’t hear my own voice, I know the sounds still make sense to Lucy.

Her small hands grasp mine and her fingers spell words into my palm. “N.O..S.H.O.E.S.” She gently guides me down to the floor, and I follow her pull, kneeling as she takes my hand in hers, gliding it across a carpet, its texture new and crisp under my fingertips. She moves my hands until I touch the hard edges. It’s a rug. She pulls me further forward and I discern that I am feeling a long, thin rug. A carpet runner? She nudges me to stand, urging my feet to feel for the carpet, sweeping each foot from side to side. Following its straight edge, I shuffle forwards one foot at a time, feeling with my toes for the edge of the rug. Abruptly, the carpet ends and I encounter the cool smoothness of the bathroom floor. I understand! The rug is a pathway from my bed to the bathroom. Lucy knows how much I loathe being trapped in this darkness, and hate being reliant upon another person. This runner is a small step toward independence, a glimmer of freedom in this interminable night. Tears trace down my cheeks, and Lucy wraps her arms around me, her tiny frame holding me together as I unravel.

I don’t wear shoes inside and Lucy has carefully placed the long carpet runners, forming soft pathways not only from the bed to the bathroom but from bathroom to kitchen. I feel these runners beneath my feet, and though she assists me initially, I soon gain the ability to shuffle around the darkness of my prison with a newfound independence. My world has just expanded.

As I shuffle into the kitchen, the delightful aroma of coffee wafts through the air; Lucy has the percolator going, and something delicious has been baked. The warm scent of cinnamon and sugar makes my mouth water.

“Smells good, Lucy-love,” I say, hoping she’s nearby, or I’ve just spoken into the empty void. She wraps her arms around me and leads me to the table to sit. I am getting better at not jumping when she touches me, but I’m still startled by the contact, even though I’ve come to expect it. She touches me constantly, her way of communicating with me and it does ground me, stops me feeling so alone.

Once I am seated, she directs my hands to a plate and a warm muffin, the source of that delicious cinnamon smell. I thank her, tell her she’s too good to me, and break off a small piece. Its apple and cinnamon flavour explodes in my mouth, warm and buttery. Next she directs my hands to the coffee cup and I know from experience to use two hands, there’s less likelihood of me wearing my coffee that way.

Once my meal is finished, Lucy places my hands on something new, encouraging me to feel it, to explore the surface with my fingers. It’s paper, but the surface is not smooth. There are textured bumps in rows. Braille. And suddenly I realise that I am going to need to learn to read all over again. To start at the beginning like a six-year-old and sound out words of basic text. It’s a daunting prospect and my gut sinks, but I know it would be liberating. The soldier within me recognises the need for intel, to have a way to communicate with the world at large, so I grit my teeth and run my fingers over the bumps, willing them to make some kind of sense.

Lucy takes my finger and rubs it over a single raised bump, then signs into my hand “A”. I get it. One dot is an A. I am good at Morse code and in that system, A is one dot and a dash, so it’s pretty similar. Hope flares. Lucy takes my finger to the next raised section and writes “B” in my hand. Unfortunately, my calloused fingers can’t discern the difference between the A and the B. I have stupid, blind, soldier fingers, toughened by combat training. I press harder, lighter, faster, slower, but to no avail. I can’t make out the difference between the A and the B. I know I have expressed my disappointment, my frustration verbally with sounds that are inarticulate. Lucy keeps moving my fingers over the two sections, as if repeating the motion would make any difference. It won’t.

With an expletive that is not nearly as satisfactory as it would be if I could actually hear it, I shove the paper and Lucy’s hands aside. I push my chair back and storm along the carpet runner to the bedroom. In my frustration, I hardly notice as my shoulder connects with the door frame and I stub my toe against the foot of the bed. None of that matters. The pain is good; it grounds me in reality.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my head in my dumb hands. I run those blind fingers through my hair, which is no longer military short, tracing the scars on one side where the hair refuses to grow. This is the stupid injury that has robbed me of nearly everything. I wish it had taken my life, then I wouldn’t be here, locked in a world of misery and silence. Lucy would grieve, I know she would, but she would eventually heal and move on. I wish that for her, yet I can’t imagine my life without her.

Soft fingers pull my hands from my head and place them against her cheeks. I feel the tears.

“Do you cry for me, or for you?” I ask.

She takes my hand and signs, “F.O.R..U.S.”

“I am so sorry Lucy, there is no us.” It rips me apart to say it.

“W.E..T.O.G.T.H.E.R.”

“It shouldn’t be like this Luce.”

She kisses my palm and rests it against her cheek again. I feel the moisture of her tears as they collect against my skin.

“I can’t be who you need.”

“I..N.E.E.D..Y.O.U.”

“I’m broken. You can’t need this. I will never be whole again.”

“I..P.R.A.Y.E.D..E.V.E.R.Y..D.A.Y..Y.O.U..W.O.U.L.D..R.E.C.O.V.E.R.”

“It would have been better if I didn’t.”

“D.O.N.T..S.A.Y..T.H.A.T.” She wraps her arms around me. She is always doing that, pressing as much of her against me so that I can almost absorb her heart beat. I can feel her whispering against my neck as she holds me. I wish I knew what she was saying, but I can probably guess. She would be telling me that I’m a selfish ass, that I should get over myself, that I’m alive and should be grateful for that. But the problem is, I’m not grateful, I’m angry. I hate what I am now. I hate the fear and isolation that is my life now, and most of all I hate that Lucy is stuck with me. If I were really brave, really good and noble, I’d send her away, tell her to make a life without me. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but they refuse to leave my lips.

I’m selfish and a coward, and I despise myself.

***

There is warmth on my face and I open my eyes to see my Lucy, her hair haloed golden by the afternoon sun as it sinks toward the horizon. She is making a daisy chain, a long loop of butter-yellow flowers, each one sporting vicious thorns that prick her fingers as she works. Her blood is bright crimson and drips down her arms and into the earth beneath us, but she barely notices it as she hums our song, the one we danced to at our wedding. Something by John Legend, ‘All of me loves all of you.’

Her green eyes glow with warmth as she looks up from her work and smiles at me. She lifts one end of the bloody loop of flowers and places it around my neck, then lifts the other side over her own head. With one blood stained hand, she caresses my cheek. Her eyes go cold and hard as the thorns of the daisy-chain bite deeply into my neck.

“Forever!” she whispers, a hiss of sound that is as far from loving as it is possible to be. It terrifies me and I shake my head, leaning back, trying to break the daisy-chain that binds us, but it is unbreakable. The thorns bite harder and now my blood mingles with hers as she whispers again, “Forever.”

October 13, 2023 10:57

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20 comments

Amanda Lieser
17:06 Nov 15, 2023

Hi Michelle! This was a wonderful take on the prompt. The use of dreams to provide sanctuary is a fascinating idea. It also let us run away with this narrator-deep into the world of their mind. I loved the way you balanced the contrast between the magic of dreams, and the heartbreak of reality. Your language for dreams was just as vivid as when our main character was awake, but that made it all the more heart wrenching. You told a beautiful love story at the end and my heart ached when we returned to dreamland. Nice work!!

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Michelle Oliver
22:20 Nov 15, 2023

Thank you. It’s a continuation of the previous story. Imagine if you lost your ability to see and hear, how narrow would your world be? I don’t know if I’d cope. Thanks for reading.

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Void Priestess
22:34 Oct 18, 2023

Really good description, Michelle! Very emotional, I can feel how frustrated that guy is. I cried at the end.

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Michelle Oliver
04:53 Oct 19, 2023

Thanks for reading and leaving a comment. I’m glad the frustration came through.

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Stevie Burges
07:02 Oct 16, 2023

Wow Michelle as usual a great story. Your work is very impressive. It takes me, the reader, into that world that the MC is living. Thanks for sharing.

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Michelle Oliver
09:03 Oct 16, 2023

Thanks for reading it. I appreciate your feedback.

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Mary Bendickson
23:10 Oct 15, 2023

Unfortunately I fell behind on reading last week and must have missed yours. Will g back to find when can. This one is worthy of a win on its own. Aways amazed at your talent. Oops. Yes I did read your last one. It's my memory that is faulty. Really liked that one, too.

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Michelle Oliver
09:04 Oct 16, 2023

Thanks Mary. I know what you mean about reading, things get crazy. I appreciate you taking the time to read my stories.

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Livana Teagan
15:35 Oct 15, 2023

Michelle - great follow up story! This prompt was perfect for the continuation of their story. A really gripping and tragic exploration of their lives post his trauma. I think you did so well showing what it looks like, not only from his perspective but also some of hers. Such a chilling situation, it's a prison for sure. I found this part especially tragic - Soft fingers pull my hands from my head and place them against her cheeks. I feel the tears. “Do you cry for me, or for you?” I ask. She takes my hand and signs, “F.O.R..U.S.” “I ...

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Michelle Oliver
22:16 Oct 15, 2023

Thanks Danie. Writing this made me fully aware of how much we use and rely upon visual and auditory clues to show a secondary character’s reactions. Without them it was hard to give some of Lucy’s reactions in the story, so I’m glad the section you picked shows her pain and suffering clearly too.

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20:23 Oct 14, 2023

Frightening in more ways than one. What a horrible fate. Totally understand the mcs pov. The final paragraph,🥺🥺🥺 Great writing as always Michelle

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Michelle Oliver
23:37 Oct 14, 2023

Thank you for reading. I’m glad the final paragraph worked. The dreams where his senses are back and he can see and hear again are a nightmare, teasing him with what he has lost.

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Tom Skye
17:47 Oct 14, 2023

Firstly, I really loved the 1st person depiction of learning braille. This was an awesome read. I thought you captured the frustration associated with being blind and deaf amazing. Obviously, it is tragic, but reading this made you really feel the frustration of the main character. Knowing the girl is there but not being able to communicate properly. It actually felt like a relief when she first communicated with him. Really amazing depiction, all round. Loved it. Thanks for sharing

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Michelle Oliver
23:35 Oct 14, 2023

Thanks for reading it and for responding. Frustration is right. Learning new skills as an adult is hard but learning while relying on only touch would be almost impossible. It’s a sense that we don’t really develop much as a sighted person.

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Marty B
16:54 Oct 14, 2023

The descriptive writing was great, the loss of sight would be terrifying for me so I understand the MC's fears. I like how touch and tase are amplified for the MC as other senses go away. 'while I’m thankful for Lucy, I also resent her.' Is the strong theme of this. Thanks!

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Michelle Oliver
23:27 Oct 14, 2023

Thanks for reading and for your feedback. I would hate to lose both sight and hearing. I don’t know how I would cope.

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Michał Przywara
20:34 Oct 13, 2023

A good follow up to the previous story, and certainly fitting the prompt. I like a lot here - finding refuge in dreams, where the senses continue to work, gaining independence through the carpet and touch, giving Braille a shot - and the ending. The narrator made a point of mentioning he even likes the nightmares, so long as it's anything that reminds him of how it was. Well, that's certainly a kind of nightmare. That he feels like a burden is clear. What's not at all clear is how Lucy actually feels about all of this. We don't have her ...

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Michelle Oliver
22:02 Oct 13, 2023

Thanks for your analysis. Keeping the pov so tight was tricky. I wanted to give more feedback as to how Lucy was coping, but he wouldn’t know. Makes you realise just how much we rely on sight and sound for those non visual clues.

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14:12 Oct 13, 2023

The end is honestly scary... This is so amazing 🤩. Wish I could say more, but you've left me speechless.

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Michelle Oliver
14:40 Oct 13, 2023

Thanks for reading it and for your positive thoughts. I thought about what you said last week and tried to go dark for the end, a little ominous.

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