The Pain We Carry

Noah woke to the ache of a cold leather loveseat, his cheek pressed into the sagging arm, his left hand gripping a tiny pillow. The room was dim, the curtains still drawn, the gray winter light leaking in around their edges like an unwelcome guest. For a moment, he lay still, listening to the apartment breathe with pipes ticking, refrigerator humming, and the distant hiss of his heater. Noah grabbed his phone, still in his lap, and saw that it was 8:19 a.m. There was a text notification on there, which he cleared away when he saw the name. In front of him, a bottle of Tequila stared at him. Was it too early to justify Tequila or too late to pretend the day didn’t matter?

Then came the knock.

It was sharp and deliberate, three raps that cut cleanly through the quiet. He groaned, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there.

“Figures,” he muttered. “On Christmas.”

No one ever knocked on his door. He swung his legs down and sat there, rubbing his face, stubble scratching under his palm. The knock came again, insistent this time. Noah grunted as a familiar irritation rose in his chest with half anger, and half reluctant curiosity.

As per usual, he imagined the possibilities and dismissed them all: wrong address, charity solicitor, some neighbor too cheerful to know better. He took a deep breath and stared at his door as if whoever stood behind it might change their mind and disappear. Whoever it was, they had chosen the wrong morning.

He yanked the door open and was instantly pushed by a hard and biting wind that shoved past him. Snow swirled at his feet, slipping across the threshold and melting instantly on the worn wood floor. Noah cursed as the cold wrapped around his chest, clawing its way under his shirt and down his spine.

The world outside was blindly white. Overnight, a battle between snow and his street raged on, and snow won resoundingly by erasing the road, cars, and even trees. Just silence and the faint echo of his own breathing. He frowned and looked down.

A box sat squarely on his welcome mat. It was plain brown cardboard, neatly taped, with no shipping label or markings indicating it was for him. It looked absurdly out of place. Noah peered out of his door to find the culprit of this mystery box. Alas, there was no one, not even footprints. Noah stood there for a long moment until his bones decided to return to the cozy heat of his loveseat. So, he turned around and left the box outside.

Noah walked directly to the kitchen to make himself some coffee and toast. However, he couldn’t help but wonder about the stupid box. He couldn’t help himself, so finally, he walked back to his front door and opened the thin barrier that separated him from this frozen world. He bent down and touched the box. It was cold and a lot heavier than it looked. As he lifted it, something inside shifted... no, it wobbled. He stepped back inside quickly, nudging the door shut with his foot. The wind protested, then vanished as the door closed, leaving only the faint hiss of snow against the windows.

Noah struggled as he carried the box inside, but managed to reach the kitchen counter. He exhaled heavily as his arms and back protested the sudden, unannounced workout. He picked up his toast and coffee and went back to his loveseat. He took a sip of coffee and felt the warm liquid gold fill his soul with a fleeting sense of coziness. Noah sometimes enjoyed the peace that silence brought.

Then he heard a voice.

Not from outside. Not from the TV. Not even his phone.

“Still stubborn,” it said gently, as if unsure. “Some things never change.”

Noah’s chest tightened as he looked around him, trying to find where this voice came from.

“No. I don’t do voices,” he yelled at the empty room. “Not today. Not ever. Absolutely not.”

As he looked around, his eyes landed on the box. He stared at it, heart now thudding harder than he liked to admit.

“You brought me inside,” the voice continued. “That was the hard part. The rest is just details. I'm proud of you.”

The voice was familiar in the most unsettling way. He knew that voice. He could almost hear the alarms sounding off in the dusty corridors of the archives of his brain.

“I lied. It's hard to remember too.” It spoke again.

“Remember what?” Noah asked, hating the way his voice dropped.

“Before the world taught you to lock yourself in here,” the voice said. “Before you decided being alone was safer.”

“Being alone IS safer. Now, enough of the games.” Noah stood up and crossed the room with deliberate irritation. This gotta be some type of prank, he thought. He ran his palm over the cardboard, feeling only tape and corrugation. With a sharp tug, he pulled the lid open.

He found a white foam cover with four holes. Then he heard water sloshing. He quickly removed the cover and staggered back, breath leaving him in a single, startled gasp.

“What the fuck?”

Inside the box sat a glass tank, perfectly fitted to the cardboard. The tank was filled halfway with water. In its corner, Noah saw something he couldn’t comprehend.

An octopus rested its body gently against the glass, its arms coiling and uncoiling in slow, gentle movements. Noah stared, mouth open, as he felt the room dance around him. He gripped the edge of the kitchen counter to steady himself, staring at the creature.

I must be dreaming, Noah thought.

“You are not dreaming.”

For the first time, Noah realized that the voice he heard was in his head and not actually from the octopus.

“What the fuck is going on? Why do I have a box with a talking fucking octopus? On fucking Christmas.”

“Whoa, chill, little man. You don't celebrate Christmas, so that doesn't matter.”

“Why did you call me little man? And how do you know I don't celebrate it?”

“I don't see any decorations, a tree, or any gifts.” The octopus swam around the tank quickly while changing his colors to different shades of green, yellow, and red to mimic a Christmas tree.”

“Why did you call me little man I asked.” Noah raised his voice, clearly agitated.

The octopus looked at him with a single, unblinking eye, then asked him with a faintly amused voice.

“Why do you think?”

“This is crazy. I'm arguing with a goddamn octopus in my living room.”

“I understand it must be difficult for you.”

“You have no idea. People don't talk to animals or fish or whatever the hell you are. And you do not talk.”

“Neither do you… Not honestly, anyway. Also, I am a mollusk.”

Noah carried the tank and walked back to his loveseat and placed it in front of him on his coffee table. He exhaled through his nose and sat down. He felt he needed to do it to deal with whatever this was. He took another long breath.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get this over with. Who are you exactly and why are you here?”

The octopus shifted, its skin rippling to a warm hue.

“Come on, Noah. I think deep down you know who I am. Besides, you needed someone with enough arms to hold all the things you have been dropping.”

“No! I have no idea who or what the hell you are, and I haven’t dropped anything.”

“Yes, you have,“ The octopus said as he swam rapidly from one side of the tank to another, anxiously. His tentacles then pointed to the door, a picture frame on the wall, Noah’s laptop tucked into the loveseat, and finally toward his chest. “Why else would you be alone on Christmas without family, friends, a job, or any hope? You call it ‘letting go’ because it sounds better, but you know you are just lying to yourself and hiding behind a cold façade so no one can come close. “

Noah looked away. “You are very judgmental for a seafood.”

“You can say I have time to think,” the octopus replied. “Eight arms, each with its own mind, plus my brain. It encourages reflection.”

“Eight arms seem excessive. Seriously, who are you?!”

“I told you, you already know.”

“If I knew, I wouldn't ask!”

“That’s not true. You ask questions all the time when you are afraid of the answers. But if I am bothering you, I can leave through the door, the window, or existentially. Your choice.” The sea creature shrugged two of his arms, mimicking a human.

“You’re smug for a mollusk, but that’s great to hear; the door is that way.” Noah pointed to his door.

“See, that’s the spirit! You and I aren’t so different. We both prefer solitude, dislike small talk, and can turn invisible when annoyed. You just sit and grumble over there while I brood over here. We will ignore each other fondly until I am dead..again.”

“I don’t turn invisible. And what do you mean by again?!”

The octopus shrugged again and swam away this time and rested on the bottom of the tank.

Noah stared at the tank until his eyes burned. The octopus looked at him calmly, eyes dark and intelligent, far too focused to belong to an animal that should not be in his kitchen on Christmas. Then, it all clicked: the soft familiar voice, the sarcasm, and the nickname. Noah grabbed his seat as his chest felt tight, the way it had the day they lowered the coffin into frozen ground fifteen winters ago.

Am I still asleep, trapped in some kind of nightmare, or have I officially lost it? Noah wondered.

This time, the octopus spoke.

“You never did have imagination, always said it was impractical.”

“D…Dad?” Noah couldn’t believe he just uttered that word.

“Was wondering how long it’d take you,” the octopus responded. “You always were slow in the mornings.”

“How?! You are dead! You have been dead! You hated the ocean! You couldn’t even swim.”

“Still can’t,” the octopus said. “Irony’s cruel like that. Also, aren’t Christmas trees dead when you buy them and drag them inside? ”

Silence fell between them. Noah kept shaking his head, trying to wrap his head around his current situation.

“How? Why?”

“Well, son, it turns out that when you die with unfinished business, you don’t always get a pearly gate and angels with harps. Sometimes you get suction cups.”

“You couldn’t just show up in a dream?”

“I tried.”

“What unfinished business do you have? Everyone loved you. You were always happy.”

“You...” the octopus responded quietly while looking at Noah with affection.

Noah was quiet for a moment.

“Me?” Noah scoffed. “What do you mean? I am fine.”

The octopus shifted in the box, its skin darkening to a bruised, thoughtful blue. One arm traced the edge of the tank, slow and careful, the way his father used to drum his fingers when he was choosing his words.

“You need to forgive your mom, son. And you are not fine.” The octopus’s eyes were steady and melancholic.

Anger flashed across Noah’s face.

“Don’t,” he said. “ Don’t tell me to forgive her. You don’t even know.”

“You walked in on her,” the octopus said after a moment of silence.

Noah felt a lump in his throat as his whole body tensed up. He never said the words out loud.

“It’s okay, Noah.”

“It’s not okay... how could you even say that?” Noah trembled as he spoke.

“She is your mother.”

“Does that make it better? Do you know how it even happened? I went home early because I got into a fight at school, and I didn’t know where else to go. The house was unlocked and almost too quiet. It was the smell that hit me first. That unfamiliar cologne mixed with the scent of your factory. I will never forget the sound of my mother’s low, careless laughter and her heavy breathing. Then, I saw the clothes scattered across the floor. I moved without deciding to. I felt like the house was pushing me forward. The bedroom door was ajar, and then I saw her under him staring in his eyes with that look. I felt something inside me split in two. She stared at me, face flushed, and screamed. I ran as fast as I could, but the hallways seemed longer. By the time I reached the front door, my body felt numb. I didn’t yell or cry. I was just numb.”

“I am sorry, son.”

“Why are you sorry? This was not your fault. She is the one who cheated.”

“I am sorry you witnessed that. I am also sorry because you don’t know the full truth, and I didn’t have time to tell you.” The octopus paused and curled on itself. “Wait, no, that’s not true. I had the time to tell you before I died and before you saw your mom, but I just didn’t have the courage to do it.”

Noah stared at him. “Tell me what?”

“The man she was with. It wasn’t love. It was a wound answering a wound. You just thought that was the beginning. But, no son, I... cheated first.”

The words didn’t explode or thunder. They were delivered quietly but ruptured Noah from within.

“You didn’t…you wouldn’t!”

“I did... a few months before. I... convinced myself it did not matter because I still came home.”

“She found out?”

“Yes, three days before you saw her with Billy.”

Noah let out a nervous and raw laugh. “So she found out about you cheating, and the day you died, she was cheating on you?”

“She was already broken.” The octopus solemnly said. “And..I left her that way.”

“Jesus.. so I carried this..this whole fucking time. Jesus.. Do you know the shit I told her? The hate I gave her? Oh my god.. the pain she must have suffered. Why didn’t she say anything?”

“Because.. she is a great woman and even greater mother. She didn’t want to take your father away from you. She preferred to be the villain rather than have two corrupt parents. She thought carrying that secret was her penance. ”

Noah looked down at his clenched hands.

“Fuck..man, that is fucked up.”

“I know.. this is all my fault…Look, I am not asking you to forgive me. I am asking you to stop living in this pain that was never yours to carry.”

Noah did not respond this time as silence swallowed the room. He sank back in his chair. He thought back on all the years, all the unopened letters, emails, cards, and all the birthdays spent alone.

“It’s like I built a shrine out of grief, actually, more like a prison. Why tell me this now?”

“Because you are ready.”

Outside, the wind eased, just a little.