The Unwelcome Companion

Wetness licks my hand.

Perhaps my puppy—your puppy—our harrier—is seeking a playmate—

I see no wagging tail, lolling tongue, or wide puppy eyes.

It is the rain, accompanying my lithe body—I dance along the cobbled street—

I sit at my desk in the artificially-lit room, surrounded by electronic hums.

You are beside me, telling a joke—bringing tears to my eyes—

You and me—together—laughing so hard—

Your silence is palpable; your invisibility, pungent.

Another tear smudges the ink before me.

I wipe my face, trying to whisk away incrimination.

I count my blessings and tell myself I should be filled, brimming, overflowing with—

Joy—Joy—Joy—

Thankfulness—

Excitement—

Anxiety

Fear

Dread

Guilt

Emptiness

Empty—

Empty—

Empty—

—Tears.

Contact: Attempted

I open my eyes and slowly lift my head. I am in the white room, sitting with my back against a wall. My legs are drawn to my chest, arms holding them tightly. The walls are smooth and emit a blindingly bright light—not only the walls, but the ceiling and floor as well—yet no light fixture is visible.

I allow my sight to rest and focus upon the figure in the centre of the room. Sitting still on a simple metal chair is a man. His physical appearance is difficult to discern, such that if I hold him just outside of focus only then does he appear distinct. He appears perhaps 35 or 40 years of age. His dress—black shoes, dark jeans, and a white button-up shirt—fits to his well-kept body. His hands rest upon his knees, and he is leaning slightly forward. His face is unshaven and his chestnut hair threatens to fall into his eyes. His hazel eyes are watching me.

When my eyes first meet his, my stomach lurches. But I recover with a snort of laughter. Of course you’d look like that, I think, wryly. The man sits up and crosses his arms in front of his chest without taking his eyes off me. His posture challenges, Like what? I purse my lips, refusing to respond, but the thoughts form in my head regardless: Like someone I would want to trust and respect purely by look alone. I frown and glare at the man. “I’m not amused,” I say aloud, accusingly. The man neither blinks nor moves—no sign that he has listened to my silence.

I close my eyes, sighing, and let my head fall back against the wall behind me. I feel the man watching me still, and—worse—I feel him moving around slowly inside my mind. My irritation spikes, but I do not hold onto it. “I’m tired,” I say, without opening my eyes.

“I know,” he replies.

I open my eyes and shift my head just enough to glance at the wall above and behind me. There is no outline of a door and no doorknob. The room is completely sealed. I should have figured, I think. My man remains in my mind, silent but moving. I glance again at him—still watching me—sigh again, and re-close my eyes. I allow my mind to wander, knowing he will follow, and yet too drained to raise barriers.

I should have known that I would end up here. The Room. This time with no door—no entrance; no exit. And yet, I can leave at any time. This room is not built of physical walls, but rather a projection of my mind—firings of the neurons in my brain. I can leave—leave this dream world. Return to the world of sound waves and solid-state matter; of people discussing philosophy of mind and debating the ecological ethics involved in purchasing eggs from caged versus free-range hens. Return to the “real” world, the world that matters, the world that determines whether I will earn enough money to purchase meals for the rest of my life; the world of apologetics and theological debates and church-splits over doctrinal disputes; the world in which religions simultaneously delineate and obfuscate life and death. Some within that world—perhaps many within that world—would disapprove of this room. Disapprove of the man sitting in it with me. Disapprove of what I am doing here. With him. In my head.

“No wonder you’re tired,” I hear him say.

I open my eyes again and look directly into his. I am silent for many seconds, trying to prevent any thoughts from forming in my mind. Pointless.

“I don’t know if I should be talking to you,” I finally say.

He vanishes instantly.

I stare at the empty chair.

“But I thought it would be better than nothing.” It is only a whisper floating through the air.

***

I glance at the corner of my computer screen. 12:15 pm. I’ve been wasting my morning, I think, angrily to myself. It is nearly lunch time and I’ve done no work! 

Breathe

James 4:9 “Be wretched and mourn and weep.

Let your laughter be turned to mourning and your joy to gloom.”

     I am sitting at my desk, perfectly still; head bowed into my hands; breathing deeply, slowly; trembling.

     So it’s still there, I think. The anger is still there. I focus again on my body—willing a cessation of the adrenaline pulsing through my vessels.

     Is it anger? Or is it fear?

     So it’s still there, I think. The fear.

     No. Not just anger. Not just fear. It is a cry—a cry of anguish: “Why do you have freedom while I am thus bound?!”

     So it’s still there, I think; my body stilling into tautness. The jealousy is still there.

     My body begins to cool, my muscles start to ache, and tears slowly well in the corners of my eyes.

Why Should It Bother You?

“It’s not always rainbows and butterflies; it’s compromise that moves us along.” How much will I give up? Arranged marriages often lead to mutual love. I care. It’s impossible to live without hope. Your head is filled with phantoms and fantasies. Do you ever wonder what I hope for? I used to think you were a phantom keeping me alone, but now I see you are a wisp keeping me in hope. I feel my heart die a little every day. What is the difference between suicide and self-sacrifice? My Christian love duty. You are anti-Christian. I love you. I thought we agreed not to use that word. You both have an anointing on your lives. He will go insane if you cut him off. You need help. God loves you so much. We can be in the insane asylum together. I’ve already been there; I’ll reserve a room for you. That’s not something you should tell people. You will never love. You do not need to help—Jesus does. It’s him versus me—and you want me to trust? I’ll be here with you in spirit. A trail of destruction. Why did you come back? My hope is crumbling. You’re bringing me down with you. Hope floats—just beyond my reach. A man threatened to jump off North Bridge a few days ago. Every time I cross it I remind myself: “No, I can’t guarantee I’d die; the fall isn’t far enough.” I wrote a paper on a UFO suicide cult. You are unnatural. I suppose it’s my fault for being me. If you could be anyone, would you choose to be you? I’m stuck in a box of six “why”s. This too shall pass. Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning. Your message woke me up. I’m sure my phone won’t survive flying from North Bridge. 

The Assessment

Today’s Assignment: Self-Acceptance

You are             gorgeous

                        neurotic

                        fun

                        depressing

                        intelligent

                        exploited

                        strong

                        fragile

                        improved

                        in need of major help.

 I don’t understand why you struggle to love you for you!

You get an F. I hope to see some more effort next time.

It's Always My Heart You'll Find in the Sea

People warned me against falling in love with the sea. “It’s chaos,” they said. But my mother was the first to instill a wild love: passing down her sea legs to me, bobbing in the waves instead of rocking in the chair. Then I grew strong and played alone with the sea. I came home with sand-bruised knees, water-washed nostrils, and a smile more ingrained than the quartz within my hair.

Rip-tides. Hurricanes. Tsunamis.

Universal deluge. Chaos. The unconscious.

“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)

it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.”

Leviathan. Giant squid. Whale shark.

Man o’ war. Tube worms. Nudibranchs.

The final frontier is not space,

but the depths of the Mariana Trench.

I sit and listen to the ebb and flow;

my eyes closed, floating along the surface,

and crashing upon the shore.

I visit the sea these early mornings. I am anxious and tired, wired and unrelaxed. And the sea, she greets me, clear and still as glass. “Come rest with me,” she says, “I’ll smooth your worries away.” I smile and wryly tease, “You’re peaceful now, but wait until the wind of day.” But I love her still, and this she knows.

For what is love, if it is only the perfect glass? No—love is bloody knees, chaotic storms, and mysterious ocean depths. Love is ebb and flow, floating and crashing, and a smile that can’t be washed away.

People warned me against falling in love with the sea. "It's chaos," they said. And I simply ask, "Is there another more worthy of my love?"

Flight 1023

A sharp throb in the corner of my forehead woke me. I opened my eyes as I was shaken again and my head hit the window. 

I sat up and grasped the arms of the seat. The turbulence seemed worse than before. I glanced around the cabin. All six people, though wide awake, seemed unperturbed. There was one couple who sat next to each other, quietly talking. The rest were scattered throughout the twenty-passenger cabin, happily entertaining themselves.

I glanced toward the control cabin, and found the stewardess staring at me. She was standing before the closed door, both hands reaching out to steady her balance. The knuckles to her left hand were white, as she clutched the galley counter. I met her eyes again. I could not tell if they were pleading or warning.

I stood and then grabbed the seat before me as the craft lurched again. The stewardess continued her stare. I slowly made my way toward her. When I reached her, she drew herself erect. 

“Um,” I began, uneasy with her silent formality. “I was wondering if—” I didn’t even know what I was wondering, but before I could babble on, she stepped aside and opened the control cabin door. “Uh,” I mumbled, aimlessly pointing inside. 

I glanced at the stewardess again for direction. Her eyes seemed to soften for a moment, but then the plane shook violently and all she managed was a harsh, “Go!”

I pulled myself through the door, and it shut quickly behind me. The turbulence seemed to have lessened here, but the room was all but silent. Clamorous beeps and buzzes trilled through the air. In response, flashes and blinkings jived along the flight deck. “What is going on?” I yelled to no one in particular. 

“No need to shout,” came the terse, calm voice. Instantly, the beeps and buzzes and flashes and blinkings subdued. I searched for the voice and found an apparition in the co-pilot’s seat. 

“Who are you?” I asked, suspicious of his translucency. 

“The auto-pilot,” he said, plainly, not taking his eyes away from the controls directly before him. 

“Where is the pilot?” I asked, quickly scanning the otherwise unoccupied cabin.

 “Not here,” came the reply. 

“And the co-pilot?” The apparition did not respond. “Right,” I mumbled. “Who needs a co-pilot when you’ve got an efficient auto-pilot?” 

“This body is fully under control,” the auto-pilot stated. His hands and attention remained at the controls. “The passengers are content and undisturbed. There is no protocol to question my efficiency.”

“What about all those sounds and lights from this side of the cockpit? Or even some of the ones near you that you seem to be ignoring?”

“Non-essentials. And it is inconsistent that you question my efficiency.” Although the voice remained emotionless, the words betrayed a challenge.

“Well, I, uh,” I took a step back toward the door.

“Unless of course—” the auto-pilot paused, and for the first time turned away from the controls. He looked directly at me. His face was expressionless, but his eyes spoke the same ambiguous language as the stewardess. “—you are offering to direct this body.”

“Oh, uh,” I took another step back and felt for the door hatch. 

“Are you leaving?” the auto-pilot asked.

“Yes,” I said, still unable to rip my eyes away from his. 

But with my response he turned back to the controls. “Then I shall resume my post.”

Freed of his stare, I turned toward the door. The beeps and buzzes returned; lights danced, reflecting, upon the door before me. I yanked the door open and was shoved by the plane’s turbulent fit into the passenger cabin. I sensed the stewardess beside me but avoided her eyes and made my way back to my seat. Once settled I glanced again at the passengers. The turbulence seemed to have no effect on them. Then I dared to look again to the stewardess. She had resumed her position before the control room door, her arms again bracing herself, and her eyes again watching me. I sank down in my seat to escape her glare, and set my head against the window. The cap on my head shifted sideways. I pulled it off, and set it on the seat beside me. I hadn’t remembered putting it on. With my head against the window, I closed my eyes and urged myself back to sleep before another round of turbulence could awaken me.

To Answer The Call

I found myself on the edge of the valley-induced mountain, looking out upon the darkness-induced lights. I’d never walked up here before—a new view of the city below. The wind was playing gently with my hair. I could hear the trucks on the highway below me, carrying their passengers far, far away. What is so safe about here? Up so high? Hidden in the dark? Sitting above, apart from the twinkling lights before me?

Kevin drifts back into my mind. Sitting on the bed. Tan work boots. Faded jeans. Plaid, flannel shirt. Ripped cap. He leaned over to talk to his father. A Marlboro pack was peeking out of his breast pocket—anything to take off the edge of stress, I suppose. He reached out his hand to his father; calloused fingers, tainted black.

Kevin asked me to stay an hour longer than expected. The prospect terrified me. The last time had depleted my strength. His father had at first held me suspect out of dementia-induced paranoia; then he had held me captive out of loneliness-induced beggary. Kevin asked me to stay an hour longer than expected. I couldn’t say no. “Are you sure you’re okay with it?” His father had fallen twice today. I couldn’t say no. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Kevin reached out his hand to his father, but his father didn’t take it. Kevin was held captive by loneliness-induced beggary. I studied Kevin’s face. Stress cut canyons and sleep-deprivation painted black-bagged eyes. Kevin was held captive. He couldn’t say no. “Sure, Dad, I’ll stay a little longer.”

His father became occupied, but Kevin couldn’t leave. He stood with me at the doorway. “So how are you handling all this?” I asked. I doubted he would give me a genuine answer. Here I am, probably half his age, someone he’s only met once before, and will hardly ever see again. Why would he trust me? “I’m handling,” he replied. Bull shit. Don’t trust the little girl. I let him be. More captivity. More empty chit-chat.

Finally, “So how about you? What are you going to do?” I could have answered empty. Could have returned his distrust-induced shit. But he’s someone I’ve only met once before, and will hardly ever see again—I don’t have time for the vague niceties. I told him how I’ve been burned-out before. I told him that I’m scared. I told him that I feel weak. I told him how easily I get drained.

And that was all it took. “I’m burned out,” he said. “This place is a shit-hole,” he said. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “I’m watching him fall apart, and it’s tearing me apart,” he said. “I get drained too.” He paused. Then he said, “So thank you for doing this.” I wanted to say to him, “I’m doing it for you.” But I didn’t.

He went to check on his father again. Twenty minutes had passed since he had first tried to leave. He was held captive. He couldn’t say no. I wanted to say to him, “Give me your chains for a bit. I can handle them. Sure it may tear me apart, but it will only be for a few hours—you’re getting torn apart every day.” But I didn’t, and he still didn’t leave.

It was dinner that saved him. Once more the Marlboros peeked out of their pocket and the calloused, blackened fingers reached out for his father’s hand. “Bye, Dad. Bye, Jaime.” And out the door he went. I hope the chains fell off—even if just for a few hours. I felt them settle around my wrists and ankles. “I’m doing this for you,” I thought after him, and then turned toward his father.

The darkened heights called to me when I finally left. I didn’t want to go home. So I climbed. I crossed over the highway, where I paused to watch the trucks speeding by into the night to who-knows-where. “Take me with you,” I thought. Then I climbed farther and higher than I ever had before. I found the edge: a guardrail at the end of a street. I sat alone. The lights twinkled before me. Why do I feel so safe up here? Up above and hidden in the darkness?

Kevin was only one of the many people who drifted through my mind. “So many,” I thought. So many to love. And I feel inadequate. And small. And weak. And scared. Maybe the darkened heights are a refuge. A reprieve from the daunting task before me. Hadn’t I just prayed the night before that Christ is enough? Maybe I don’t believe it. Or maybe I do. He has to be enough—because I’m certainly not.

And then there is that other nagging question: who will love me? Or maybe it's, who will I let love me? Yes, the darkened heights are safer. Then a dog barked behind me. Loud and threatening--I'm trespassing on his territory. I guess my reprieve cannot last forever. Back into the lit valley I descend.

Grip 'n Grim

I watched as the leaf fell toward me; slowly, elegantly, dancing with the wind; its vermilion hue shimmering in the evening sunset. As I grasped it, cold wetness splashed upon my chilled hand. The misty air broke into a soaking downpour, as the sky released her tears. The sun was laid to rest, and the darkness rolled upon the earth.

I came to on the bathroom floor. The garbage can had been knocked over, and trash littered the floor around me. My head was throbbing. I shakily picked myself up and cleaned the floor. Then I snuck back to my room, hoping no one had seen or heard anything.

The tiny cell screamed in agony. Its nucleus tried to think—tried to figure out what was happening. More ATP! it would yell. But the mitochondria were unable to produce. More glucose! they demanded back. But glucose was not to be had. Deliveries had become sparse. The cell knew there was a famine in the universe, yet for a while the fat reserves had sustained life as usual. But recently an intercellular rumor had begun to spread. It was easy to discredit the basophils; after all, they were always overreacting. But despair began to set in once the lymphocytes confirmed: the great fat stores had been depleted.

I lay huddled on the couch, feeling naked and abandoned and cold. So cold—and exhausted. I finally garnered enough energy to ask for my ragged, oversized, flannel jacket. My belongings hadn’t been approved yet, but perhaps the nurse was moved to pity me. She retrieved my jacket from the back room, and I returned to the couch. I curled myself into a ball—the jacket covering my entire body. Behind my eyelids, my muddied brain recalled a vision I had seen upon arrival. A woman. And tubes. Tubes on her body. Tubes going into her body. She was being fed through tubes. I don’t want to be that bad, I thought. I pulled my body even tighter, trying to disappear. So cold.

I tried to leave the city. A man in white: white suit, white hood, white boots, white gloves, white mask, black gun. A man in white held a black gun to my face. Get back, was all he said. I stood for a moment, looking at the line of other white men around him, and then I turned around. As I walked the dirt road, I could hear moaning from every direction. The stench clung to me: vomit, defecation, blood. The entire city was being consumed. I entered the shack. My sister lay on the floor facing the wall. I listened to her strained breathing, relieved that she was able to escape death through unconsciousness. My head began to throb. I sank to the ground next to my sister and placed my hand on her arm. It was cold—colder than her skin should’ve been in the summer heat. I shook her. She didn’t wake. I could still hear the strained breathing, but her chest wasn’t following rhythm. Agitated and confused, I shook her again. Tears filled my eyes, and I felt my nose begin to run. Tremors convulsed my body. I brushed my trembling hand against my nose, and then reached again for my sister. But I stopped when I saw the red on my hand. Copper and iron coagulated before my mind. I coughed and painted my sister crimson.

“You look like death.” “Your body is eating itself.” “Your heart is so weak; it will eventually stop beating.” “You are killing yourself.” “Maybe you should write your own obituary.”

Look away from me.

I don’t want you to see.

I know I’m on my own, but I wish—

I wish you'd call me home.

Probing Desires

(Note: This post makes a reference to "Safe Place." To understand what I am talking about, please refer to my post "A Winsome Web of Tangles" Dec. 2013.)

            Here we are again. Sitting on my front porch—if you can even call it mine. Most people encounter Jesus in memories; I just encounter him here, in Safe Place. I don’t really know if I invite him or not—maybe he just shows up. Either way, here we are. I’m here. He’s here. We are here, sitting on the steps of my front porch.

            We aren’t talking. I’m not even looking at him. Instead I am staring out at the breakers. Watching one after another crash toward the shore. But I know he’s next to me. I can sense his warmth.

            “I want to touch you,” I say, still facing the breakers.

            There is silence next to me.

            I turn my head to look at him. He is staring at the breakers too. I take in his form. He is dressed in a white and brown robe that wraps loosely around his body and is rippled by the wind. His sandals reveal sand-scrubbed toes. His elbows are resting on his bent knees, allowing his hands to prop his chin. The wind is tugging at his wispy hair, causing it to dance before his eyes. At the moment my eyes seek out his, he turns to me. My stomach drops with a sharp in-take of breath. I’ve tried to identify the color of his eyes before, but it is impossible—they simultaneously engulf my being and flood my desert soul before I can make any claim upon a word of color.

            “So touch me,” he says.

            I pull myself out of him. “That’s not what I mean.” I divert my eyes back toward the sea. “I want to touch you beyond this place.”

            “How is that possible if you won’t even try to do that here?”

            I catch myself mid-eye-roll. Listen, Jaime.

            “Alright,” I say, turning my focus back upon him. I raise my left hand and slowly reach it toward him. His eyes remain trained upon me. My hand reaches closer and closer. Just as I think my hand is about to land upon his upper arm, it passes right through him.

***

            I am sitting in my mother’s study, working on my computer. I hear my mother’s voice behind me. She is talking on the phone. Then I feel her hand begin to play with my hair. A shiver of pleasure travels down my spine.

***

            I yank my hand back out and away from his body.

            “What was that?” I yell.

            “What was what?” he responds quietly.

            “You know what I’m talking about,” I reply, bitter accusation dripping from my voice.

            Jesus looks at me, silently waiting. I force myself to calm down.

            “Try again,” he says.

            I move my arm more quickly this time, toward him and into him.

***

            A friend is sitting beside me in the passenger seat of my car. I make a sly comment; he laughs and nudges me with his elbow. A smile escapes my lips.

            I am laying on my mother’s old water bed. It is early in the morning—much too early for me to be awake. My mother is attempting to lull me back to sleep. She hums softly and runs her finger nails gently upon my bare arms. I close my eyes and slowly drift away.

            I am sitting at the dining room table of my grandparents’s house. The extended family has gathered for a holiday celebration. I am anxious and am silently watching the antics around me. Then I hear my father’s voice behind me. It pauses above my head, and I feel his hands descend upon my shoulders. My racing heart begins to slow. He gives me an absent-minded massage as his soothing voice converses with those around us.

            A group of my casual friends have gathered for a summer celebration. As we walk and laugh together, a friend of mine lightly rests her arm around my shoulders. The warmth of acceptance seeps through my body.

            I am sitting, huddled, in a chair with tear streaks staining my face. My body is tense from shaking, and my head is bowed in shame. I have just confessed something dark and dirty. I am suspended, waiting for the condemning abandonment of the women who have heard. But instead, I feel a woman’s hand, moist with cleansing waters, brush my own. She pours more water over my hands and then holds them tightly. My muscles begin to loosen, massaged with forgiveness and love.

***

            I withdraw my hand from him again. Without speaking, I stand up and walk back into the house. I walk to my bedroom and climb into the large empty bed. I pull the covers over my head and lay in the darkness.

            I wrestle with myself in stillness. I cannot deny the love just shown me, but I want something more. What he has given me is wonderful, but it isn’t enough.

            “Enough for what?” I hear Jesus ask. I hadn’t even heard him enter the room. I stretch my body as wide as I can upon the large bed. In doing so, I discover my answer. But I cannot bring myself to voice it.

            Suddenly I can sense Jesus very close to me. His warmth brushes my right ear. "Closer than a whisper; close enough to hear your heart beat. Closer than a kiss; close enough to raise your heart beat."

What Two Distinct Ones?

I am sitting on the steps of the little blue house, staring out at the ocean. All is silent. No wind. No waves. No gulls. Only my breathing. And my thoughts.

I glance over and see her lying there. The woman in the white dress is lying on the sandy shore. Why was she still there? I glance down at my own white dress, reminding myself that she is me and I am her; still two distinct ones. Why am I still here?

I glance back at the beach and see him kneeling beside her. I am not shocked. It is as if I have been expecting him. Or perhaps I had sensed his presence.

I watch him kneeling over her. He is stroking her hair. My stomach tightens in hunger. Why doesn’t he come to me? Something appears in his hands; something round and red. He lays it upon her head. She does not stir. Then the object slowly, steadily sinks into her temple. The tightening in my stomach travels to my neck and then flushes my face. I clench my eyes shut, enclosing myself in lonely darkness.

***

“Lots of fruit in this one.” A woman’s disembodied voice. “Lots and lots of fruit.”

***

I open my eyes. I am no longer on the steps. I am in the entryway of my old high school. There, in front of me, is me. She is no longer the woman on the beach; she is a girl, still in the white dress, but pale and innocent when away from the sun and sand. As before, all is silent; other students pour around us, but there is no noise. I watch as students acknowledge the me in front of me. With each new acknowledgment she smiles and waves. I stop following her, nauseated by her lightheartedness. My gaze is involuntarily drawn to the space on the floor between us. Purple footprints dot the way behind her feet. I bend down to examine one and find grapes; deep, reddish purple grapes. I quickly snap erect and run after myself.

By the time I catch up with her, she has turned down an abandoned hallway; abandoned by all except one other person: another girl, her face blotchy and her cheeks stained with salty tears. The two girls are huddled together next to the wall. I approach. Still plunged in silence, I can only watch them. The white-gowned girl is stroking her companion’s arm. Whenever she lifts her hand, a strawberry remains upon her companion’s skin. Then I watch as she opens her mouth to speak, and instead of hearing words, I see a crimson apple fall from her mouth and roll to the floor. I stare at it, rolling toward my feet, in silent consternation. It comes to rest before me, and I look up, wide-eyed, at the girls. Neither of them has noticed the apple, nor the strawberries, nor the grapes that are still painting the floor. The once-tearful girl is now embracing my other me, a weak smile upon her face. The two detach, and the recovered girl walks away. My eyes follow her in bewilderment: multiple strawberries bejewel her back and sleeves, each mildly resembling a hand print. I spin around to glare at my mysterious self, but my anger fizzles as I find her huddled on the floor.

I cannot hear her crying, but I can see round, plump blueberries falling from her eyes into her lap. I retreat from her until my back hits the opposite wall. Even in her agony she is beautiful. I slide to the ground, my eyes never diverting from the creature in front of me. My hunger returns. But it is more than hunger; it is gnawing emptiness. Coldness begins to seep through my body. Shivers crawl upon my skin. I pull my knees into my arms and tuck my head inside. Water brims my eyelids. As I close my eyes, I feel a droplet form on my lashes. And then it falls.

***

The sensations come rushing upon me. I feel the sun upon my arms and the crown of my head. I smell the salt of the sea. I hear the crash of the waves and the calls of the gulls. I feel the wind tug at my wispy hair. And I feel a hand brush my cheek.

My eyes fly open. The first thing I see is a blueberry lying on my lap, its hue contrasting with my white dress. I feel a hand holding my arm, and my eyes immediately seek to behold it. Then I am conscious again of the hand on my face because it is being withdrawn. I look up and into his eyes. Those eyes—colorless and yet colored without exception—draw me into themselves. He glances down, and my eyes hungrily follow. I see the withdrawn hand. Its palm is exposed, and resting singly upon it is a crimson apple.

“But I don’t underst—”

“Shhhhh,” he says, placing a finger to my lips. He looks to the beach, and my eyes obediently follow. The woman in the white dress is gone.

He gently pulls my chin so that I am again gazing into him. “You are right here,” he says.

I feel him place the apple into my hands. "Eat."

Pawpaw

I press my nose and hands against the chilly glass. With each breath, the steam-amoeba undulates upon the window. My eyes are trained upon the tree in the yard. It is a small shrub-of-a-tree, and it bears similarly-small fruit upon its branches. I’ve told Mother that this is a pawpaw tree, but she tells me this is impossible: we have no such tree in the yard. And yet my eyes are the zebra swallowtail, feasting upon its leaves from the other side of the glass.

“Mother, Father, look!” I yell, tearing my nose and hands away to glance into the empty space behind me. I turn back to the window. I allow my nose and hands to be drawn again to the cool surface. But a black haze begins to darken my view. I wrench myself away in shock. The pawpaw is disappearing behind black crystals; black black crystals spreading across the window. I stand on my tip-toes, trying to see the tree above the blackness, but the crystals beat me. I run across the room to the next window, but the crystals race alongside of me and the pawpaw is enveloped again. “My tree,” I whisper.

In desperation I try to scrub the crystals with my hand. They are cold; colder than the smooth surface of the glass. The coldness begins to burn, and I withdraw my hand. The black crystals are spreading across my skin. I try to wipe them off with my other hand, but the blackness only furthers its conquest. I turn away from the window and slump down to the floor. The crystals are now colonizing my knees and my feet. In confused despair, I allow my head to slump into my hands and my tears to brink their ridges. The black crystals begin to disintegrate me. I am slowly dissolving amid my own tears. My fingers, my knees, my toes begin to crumble into dust before my lowered eyes. And yet I feel no pain; only the burning cold of numbness. I close my eyes.

“But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear.” At the sound of the whispered words, I open my eyes. The salted dust is no longer before me; instead I see one pale, green pawpaw lying on the floor, faintly glowing. I reach down my disintegrated hands and pick up the fruit. I feel its warmth seep into my skin and spread throughout my body. Then the pawpaw itself seeps into me. Where black crystals once reigned, warm and glowing restoration begins to conquer. With my integrated hands I push myself up to my integrated knees and then to my integrated feet. I turn toward the once crystalized blackness and see clearly. I see the tree covered in pale, green pawpaws in the center of the yard, illuminated in light. I am once again a zebra swallowtail, my flight nourished by its leaves.

Speaking Silently Screaming

“Hey! Come out of there! You’re being ridiculous!” I jam my fingers in my ears and squeeze my eyes tight. With each bang on the wall, I slide further to the ground.

Then it stops. I open my eyes. The frosted walls surround me, paling the light from without to a soft dimness. I exhale slowly. I can see my smoky breath. I shiver and hug my knees to my chest. The sounds from without are muffled. My heart beats thunderously against my chest.

Another voice approaches; this one is calmer. It is the voice of reason. “Let me come in and help you. We can fix this.” I watch the shadowy figure through the wall. He taps gently.

But the thunder in my chest does not cease. I hug myself tighter, willing him to go away. He won’t understand.

"Use your words."

I slam my head back against the wall. I can’t! I scream inside. I don’t have any words—they are gone!

The man on the other side of the wall stops tapping and walks away. I close my eyes in the silence.

I have only emptiness where words have abandoned me.

“I’m sorry I’m in such a negative mood,” I said, avoiding his eyes.

“Alcohol usually helps with that,” he replied, a smile dancing on his words.

No alcohol—not now.  It will only crack the dam holding back the flood of tears.

“Do you have any suggestions for helping one get out of a bad mood?” I asked.

“Well, drugs seem to be the path of choice for most young Americans these days,” he replied, a twinkle in his eye—reminding me of the smile on another man’s words.  

I have already thought of that; already rummaged my memory in search of those pills. I am sure I did not throw them out. It’s been years since I’ve taken them, but it’s been years since I’ve felt so silent.

 In the silence I hear a soft voice slowly whisper, “Thankfulness.” I open my eyes. There is a misty wisp gliding in front of my eyes. I reach out to grasp it, but my hand hits the wall and the wisp vanishes.

I continue to look through the frosted wall. I see distant figures moving to and fro. A shiver runs through my body. I sit back and pull myself as closely as possible. I look around my small enclosure. The silence is overwhelming, but the emptiness is worse.

I know what I want to happen. I want someone to come into my silence and join me there. I want someone to come into my emptiness and join me there.

I stare at the bareness beside me, willing such a figure to appear. “Hold me,” I whisper. But only silence and emptiness reply. I drop my head to my knees and let the dam break.

A Winsome Web of Tangles

Everything is black. I rest there in the stillness, focusing on my breath—each inhale, each exhale.

But then there is something else. Not all is stillness. Though my world is engulfed in black, it is far from silent. I pause my breath and listen.

I hear the crashing of the waves, steady as a heartbeat. It is accompanied by the call of not-so-distant gulls. The wind picks up strands of hair to whisper in my ear.

As the wind tickles with straying hairs, I sense the warmth of the sun on my legs, my back, my arms. I wiggle my fingers and find them stroking grains of heated sand.

I gently open my eyes. Through wind-swept wisps, my eyes find and rest upon the ocean’s frolicking surface.

I prop myself on one arm, throwing waves of hair upon my bare shoulders. I twist my body to glance away from the shoreline. Behind me is a pale blue house. A beam of warmth bursts deep within my abdomen. I pick myself up, absent-mindedly brushing the sand from my dress. As I take a step toward the house, I glance at my sand-scrubbed toes—and halt.

There, below me, is a woman. There, below me, is me. Before the terror has a chance to rise to my throat, I clench my eyes shut.

Everything is black.

“I don’t really know much about you,” he said. “Other than what you write. And there is not very much ‘happy’ in there.”

“Well, it’s just where I am right now,” I replied.

“Don’t you have some happy memories that you can tap into?”

I open my eyes. This time I am behind the house. This is how I am used to entering the scene. The blue house is perhaps fifty yards before me. I must walk up a slight hill, as the grass shifts to soft sand. As I crest the hill, I glance out to the ocean. The figure in the white dress is still lying in the sand. It is odd. I have been to this place many times, and yet this is the first time I have been able to see myself.

“Few of my memories are happy,” I explained.

As I mount the back steps and reach for the door, I pause to reflect upon the house. The pale blue building is only one story tall. I glance around the corner and catch a glimpse of the front porch. I notice that all of the windows are thrown open to the breeze, allowing the white curtains to billow freely. I smile, acknowledging its warm invitation.

This place is far from Memory; I have never been here. It is not even a picture. Though I am quite sure I have seen each and every isolated element of this scene at some point in my life, it is my creativity that has placed them together. This is my Safe Place.

I pull open the back door and step inside. The air is light.

“Try to write about something different—write about desire,” he urged.

I am in the bedroom. There used to be a Man here. He was supposed to be waiting in the bed for me. But I have never slept with him. I have never even seen him, truthfully—only felt his presence. Regardless, he is not here now. Perhaps he was killed by the Man-in-Black.

I developed Safe Place years ago. It was my first assignment as part of EMDR therapy. I began and ended every session in Safe Place. It is, therefore, still perplexing to me how the Man-in-Black ended up in my house.

I glance hesitantly at the bedroom chair. He is gone. The Man-in-Black is gone. I am blissfully—and safely—alone.

The last time I had tried to come to this house I was scared. I was being taunted by witches, and werewolves, and demons. It was always the eyes. Red eyes gleaming at me in the darkness. And so I ran. I ran to this house. I yanked open the door; dashed into this room. And then I saw him. Or, rather, I saw a black-cloaked arm and a leather-gloved hand. So I ran back out. I thought I would never be able to come back. But for some reason I awoke on the sand today.

I walk from the living room to the kitchen. There is a pot of coffee still setting. I pick up a half-emptied mug and smile. I learned to drink coffee in Safe Place long before I tried it in real life. I glance through the window over the sink and spot the woman once more. She is lying still bathed in the afternoon sun. Her hair is a winsome web of tangles falling around her face, shoulders, and back. Her head is resting on an arm. Her white sun dress is wrapped around her hips and upper legs. I glance down at myself to see the same white dress. Yes, it is exceedingly odd to encounter myself here. This has never happened before.

I step through the open front door and onto the wooden porch. I rest my arm on a similarly wooden swing, and close my eyes.

“Just try to write something giddily insane. No purpose to it—just happiness.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” I stutter. “It’s—it feels like free-falling.”

I open my eyes, and, for the first time ever, they focus on a cliff in the distance.  I can see it drop off into the ocean. I smile. It’s funny how things appear purely through imagination.

I step off the porch and onto the sandy ground. I begin the trek to the cliff—the voices inside my head propelling me.

“Don’t say you can’t do it. You haven’t even tried. Think of it this way: I want to fly, but I have never jumped off anything tall in order to try. Who knows?—If I jump I might just fly. And to fly is my greatest desire. Just try for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Then there is another voice.

“What IS it that you desire?”

I closed my eyes—searching my heart for an answer. When I finally found it, the answer surprised me. I opened my eyes and stared at the man before me. I wondered if he would understand. “To fly,” I said.

It is intriguing, the webs of desire that tangle us together. 

I am nearly to the edge of the cliff. The wind is whipping my hair around my face and causing my dress to billow as the white billowing curtains. I step to the edge of the cliff and look down.

“It’s like free falling,” I say to myself. I step off. The girl on the beach continues to bask in the sunshine. Our hair is a winsome web of tangles falling around our face.