A Darker Night
Albert Davis

 


The shadows are falling heavily across the room as the white glare from the sentinel street lamp burning outside the window challenges the darkness of the room. It is cool, quiet, and peaceful; I am not. My soul is a maelstrom of emotions. They dance and sing merry little tunes around my mind. They mock me. They tell me outrageous stories the meanings of which lie just beyond my reach. In and out of the light, in and out of the light, always in and out of the light.

The intensity of the contrast between light and dark in the room hurts my eyes. I�ve been staring at it intently for hours, why? The harsh band of light that is painted across the tips of my shoes is causing me pain but I can�t move them. I have decided not to move them in any case, some how this pain is comforting. I sit in my chair and marvel at the way the intensity of the band destroys the color of the shoes. The band of light crushes the brown of the shoes and makes them black and white, no middle tones of gray, only black and white. Much like life I think to myself. Well, at least that�s been my life, harsh without tones, but no one cares very much about that, least of all me. My mind wanders; I must get back to the present; I need to touch the core of the light; I must focus. I wonder why at this hour I am still wearing my shoes considering my plan they seem so out of place. I feel I should be sleeping, but I can't. Perhaps it's fear of the dark, I chuckle at the idea. I�ve lived my entire life in the dark, why should I fear it?

I look into the depth of the room and imagine that I can see the threads of my life woven throughout the blackness of my existence holding the narrow margins of my mind together. I laugh to myself again, I must, there is no one else to laugh at or with; I am alone. I have always been alone. I can remember the solitude from the very beginning; the darkness of the womb still reaches out and touches me. Another laughable thought, the threads of my life being held together and the virtual loneliness, pure myth; either thought is disposable because neither thought has substance nor do they help to explain just why the hell I am here. Another amusing thought, who is there to explain it to? Where is there one to care? How could I explain what I feel when I am not sure of this myself?

I look out the window into the searing pain of the light again. I close my eyes against the light and feel the weight of the piece in my lap. I run my fingers over the cool hard metal and relax a little. I feel the time is near at hand and I relax even more. The sound of a car passing in the street draws me from my thoughts. The sound of the engine seems terribly loud I am startled to think that it could be so close. I don't want anything or anyone to get too close. I shove the chair back further into the dark of the room and I am saddened because by moving I have destroyed the contrast of the light against my shoes. The light now lays on the floor it�s edges sharp and clear and my shoes are in total darkness; I can no longer see them. For some strange reason this distresses me. It seems as though the last vestiges of hope have moved into the shadows with the shoes.

I knew it wouldn't last, hope never lasts, and it always disappears. It, hope, didn�t last when I was ten and hoped upon hope that the sorry ass bastard that my bitch of a mother named Daddy would keel over and die. Instead he kicked the shit out of me before he took every dime we had and disappeared forever. I remember hope�s death as I watched my drunken mother smoke and drink herself into an early grave leaving me all alone. What, another joke, I am hitting on all cylinders now. I have always been alone. She simply left me to myself and in some strange way I think it made me happy. Do you think that�s sick? Not that I give a shit what you think, but it is an interesting question wouldn�t you say?

Forget about hope, mind is drifting again, must get back to the present. Must return to the task at hand, I must find my shoes. I search the darkness for my shoes but my legs fade into the darkness and end in nothing. I know they are there, it�s that Descarte thing, you know, �I think, therefore I am.� The real question is what am I?

Am I a sane man with reasonable hopes and dreams? No, no, no I�ve already found all my dreams to be nightmares and hope has been dead for all time. So hopes and dreams can have no anchor in reality or sanity. So, with what do I measure sanity? I rest my case on the words of Dali, �The only difference between me and a madman is that I�m not mad.� I know that I am sane, yet I still have doubts; I can see this world clearly through the fog of my own existence; the illusion of reality hangs on desperately. I can see right and wrong and taste the brassy metallic flavor of their differences and nowhere is there the smell of confusion. I can choose right or wrong proving my free will and allowing me the privilege of being wrong if I so choose. I am comfortable with my choices.

Again I run my fingers over the smooth cool metal and I am confident once more. I feel I can stride across the land a colossus if you will, how can I be stopped? Where is the power to deter my fate? What God is there to reach from his heaven, wherever that may be, and touch the humanity that is still left in my heart? Can I ever cry again? Do I wish to cry or I am I truly content to walk ruff shod through life crushing the hopes and dreams of all that I meet? I feel my power and I know that I am God and only I can stop the madness that is in me. All that I meet are doomed, I can taste the power and it is sweet; it is filling and complete. I know that I must fulfill my destiny and achieve the labors that I as God have commissioned. It is time!!

I lift God�s sword from my lap; I place the barrel in my mouth and close my eyes. I can see heaven, my home. I can taste the doom on the cold hard barrel of the revolver. I squeeze my eyes tighter as my finger takes up the slack on the trigger and I am ready to become God. I can hear the fates screaming in my ear; they are calling to me, calling me, calling me. Come home, come home, come home.

I open my eyes and focus. The incessant buzzing of the alarm draws my attention. I am confused, why am I sucking on the business end of this revolver? I take the pistol from my mouth and put it away; I search the room for witnesses and am relieved when I find none. I must go to work. I go and take a long hot shower and the water is soothing. It washes the pain from my mind and relaxes my tension-racked muscles. I am feeling much better now. The night is just a dream among many other dreams and I drag it from the present into the past with the rest of them. It is forgotten, I must move on until the next dream. Work, yes, that�s what I must do, work.

I dress and have a light breakfast; I check the apartment and lock the door as I leave. I am back on track and into my regular routine, yes, I am feeling much better now. I pull into the Dunk�n Donut shop to get my morning coffee. As I enter Maggie looks up and smiles. Yes, so familiar and so comforting, it is a good thing. �Good morning officer Lewis, how are you this morning?� Maggie asks brightly. �Oh fair ta middle�n as usual Maggie. How�s business?� �Just like you officer Lewis, steady and dependable. Got your coffee right here.� �Thanks Maggie, you have a nice day.� �You bet officer and you watch out for them bad guys, ya hear.�

I wave as I leave and smile. I think to myself as I return to the squad car how wonderful the day time is, so much better than the night.

 

 

Copyright © 2001 Albert Davis
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"