Deeper than the Darkest Night

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.”