A Sun Much Brighter

The last thing Thomas heard was the pinewood dock cracking beneath the weight of his little four-door and the lake rushing up to meet him. He must have been knocked out when his head hit the dash. Probably good in hindsight, he figured.

Now, Thomas was awake again. He wasn’t in the lake anymore, and would likely not make it back, he thought. There was a feeling of finality to the place he now found himself in, a sharpness that called him to focus. A looming sense of responsibility for himself.

When Thomas looked down, he could hardly recognize his own body. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it. Come to think of it, nothing was wrong with it! That was what caught him off guard. He lifted up his shirt to find the scar that had lived on his abdomen since his minor bicycle incident in grade five. It must have run off somewhere. In fact, all of his scars, along with the pimple between his eyebrows that came to visit every week or so, and even the mosquito bite on his ankle from the night before were all gone.

Thomas surveyed his peculiar surroundings. To his left, sand was folded into dunes all the way to the horizon. No oases, not a single tree or puddle. The sky was getting dark over there. 

To his right, Thomas saw only verdant pastures, rolling hills of a vivacious green that seemed more alive than any plant or tree he knew on Earth. The hills were steep---even steeper once you looked farther back---but not unscalable. Wildflowers sparsely dotted some of the hills, but their scarcity did nothing to diminish the impression they made. From what must have been at least a quarter-mile away, Thomas could still make out every precious detail of the things, could count every petal. They populated the ground nearest to him in every color he could imagine, and even in some colors he couldn’t.

At the back end of the hills was a sun much brighter, much more piercing, than the one he knew, but not in a rude way. This sun was not intimidating, but inviting. Even the shadows it cast were friendly. It was the purest white when he looked directly at it, and he could for as long as he wanted. Further from its source, however, it seemed to command the whole sky to burn lightning-blue.

Thomas turned to the right and walked toward the hill nearest to him---the tiniest of the bunch---to find a seat. This was a nice place, he concluded. Nicer than the one he had just left. His contentment lasted only a moment. But what will she think?, he wondered. She’s going to be so upset. She was already upset with me and now she will never forgive me. 

Thomas had moved in with Charlotte just a few months prior, at her behest, as he did most things. He loved her very much, but she could be frigid at times. She wasn’t the gracious type, but that was okay. Thomas knew she loved him just as much as he loved her. Probably more, he thought. Thomas knew he was no perfect man, and he understood why she got impatient.

If he could just make it to things on time, if he could just stop throwing the pity parties she hated, if he could just make more sacrifices for Charlotte, like she did for him, then maybe she wouldn’t have to act this way or speak this way. Thomas mostly agreed. Yes, if he could be a little more like Charlotte, he could make her happier. 

Thomas couldn’t bear the thought of making Charlotte cry. She had every reason to, he thought. She told him how his habits troubled her, how she couldn’t look at him the same way, and she made sense. He would have gotten himself under control eventually. He always told her that. He said she just needed to be patient; said that this was his battle. But Charlotte reminded him that this was rightly her business, as well. He would try to wipe the tears, try to explain himself, try to forgive himself, but the waves of guilt would break the dam more often than not.

Thomas never got panic attacks like that a few years ago. He couldn’t remember why they started or when they started. He never had them at work or with his family. He never really considered himself the anxious type. Charlotte was always there to stroke his hair and soothe him when his attacks set in, though. She always knew how to take care of him. He hoped that these attacks wouldn’t follow him into this new place.

He felt guilty now, too. She would be confused, despairing, and it was his fault again. She would cry because of him again, he thought. She would be at the apartment now, making chicken piccata and noodles. When he left that morning, she said they would be having her favorite for dinner that night. He never told her where he was going. She would have been upset again. She would be waiting for him now at the table while the food got cold. His phone would go straight to voicemail and she’d keep waiting for a call back.

Thomas reached for his pocket. His phone wasn’t there anymore. He wished he could just send a brief text to let her know what happened. He could explain. He would explain whenever she got there.

Still perched on the smallest hilltop, Thomas picked at a smiling little zinnia in the grass by his feet. Its deep orange sang to him. None of the hues he knew could ever hold a tune. He counted its petals and wondered how long it would be before she arrived. He looked behind him and saw that new sun that didn’t cleave into his eyes like the old one. It didn’t demand that he break its gaze like the old one. He wondered if he should start heading that way. Not yet, Thomas thought. I’ll just sit tight until she gets here. I’ll explain everything. He could tell her what happened. Perhaps she could forgive him. She could take his hand in hers and they could scale those hills together. 

Thomas wished to check the time, but his old Casio must have fallen off his wrist. He hoped it wouldn’t be long.