In This Next Sleep

[Content note: Depicts live burial and sensory deprivation.]

“Hello?” I try to say, but the sound doesn’t escape my mind.

It is dark. Or am I blind? I seem to be able to move, but barely. My head moves side to side, but the motion is jerky and stunted. Even still, my vision registers nothing. But I feel as though I should see. Does this mean I’m not blind, but that it is dark?

I attempt to raise my hand to check my face. It collides with something in front of me. Something close. It’s firm, but soft.

“So, I can feel,” I think to myself, “Good.”

I run my hand along my body, finding the tops of my legs, my hip, my stomach, eventually leading to my chin and face. My hand moves over my skin; fingers searching the area, dragging my arm behind it. I probe my face. Lips, nose, eyes…

“UGH!”, I gasp, as my finger pokes me in my eye. A flash of red blooms behind it.

“And I have eyes, it’s just dark,” I think to myself.

My skin feels off though. Taut. Stiff. Not the soft skin of a woman of…

“How old am I? Better yet, WHO am I?”

These questions start to hurt my head. A lot of unknowns. A few knowns. Dark, something in front of me and I’m dry. Not a lot to go off of. I think on it more and my mind starts to drift away.

Time passes. How do I know? Not sure, it just feels like time has passed, like when you wake from a nap. You know time has passed but are unsure of how long before you check a clock.

“OK, what else can I learn?” I ask myself.

Can’t see. Or, no light to let me see.

What do I hear?

Nothing. It’s really quiet. Muffled.

What do I smell?

I breathe in through my nose. The air rushing into my lungs hurts. Hurts like I haven’t done this in a long time. As if I’d been holding my breath. The air seems stale. There is an aroma to it I can’t quite place. It’s familiar but just out of reach.

That leaves taste and touch. I know my sense of touch works, since I can feel around this place I’m in, but the images my fingers bring me are confusing. The walls are soft, but rigid. Padded, but barely, and smooth. I can grab the walls and they seem to move. Or maybe it’s just the fabric covering it.

Fabric. Right. This is a fabric covered room.

That leaves taste. I don’t really want to lick the wall, and I don’t seem to have anything else to stick in my mouth. I tentatively open my mouth and stick out my tongue. It’s dry. Really dry, and it moves sluggishly.

I explore the inside of my mouth with my tongue. It scrapes over the back of my teeth. I am not producing any saliva. It reminds me of sandpaper on tile. It’s off-putting.

So of the five senses I can rely on one. Touch.

I begin to feel the wall in front of me. The fabric is slick, and as I follow it around the wall, there are edges to it. And the edges feel fuller. What is that called again? Folded? No. Layered? No. The fabric seems gathered here. GATHERED! That’s it. Smooth, then gathered. The walls next to me are softer and must have some padding behind the fabric.

I attempt to grab at the fabric in front of me, but it is too slick. The gathered fabric is easier to hold, and I take as much into my fingers as possible and pull. The fabric moves in my hand and then there is resistance. I pull harder and I hear it begin to tear.

Hear it.

I CAN hear but nothing was making any sound.

I feel the fabric between my fingers and keep pulling until the fabric comes away in my hand. I then begin to search behind the fabric. There seems to be a smooth wall. It’s close. Close on all sides. Am I in a box? Why would I be in a box? I try to take a step, but my feet aren’t on the ground. Oh, so I’m laying down. I’m lying in a box. I can’t see, I can’t hear anything outside the box. There is no smell, or I can’t smell anything.

I drift off again.

A stormy night. The horizon lights up from a blaze of lightning. Thunder peals through my ears and rumbles my chest. I’m alone in a storm. I’m standing in a rainstorm, watching the world become saturated. I’m soaked to the skin. I look around and see a tree. My feet lead me towards it. Towards the safety of its branches. Away from the rain. The water runs around my shoes. The rain is coming down hard enough that the water creates tiny rivers around my feet. Then a bright flash and a smell I can only call “burnt air” strikes my nose.

I open my eyes. I’m back in the dark. Was that a dream? Was I sleeping? I try to speak again but my mouth is too dry. My tongue feebly makes the movements but there isn’t enough air passing through my throat to make sound. “I could use a drink,” I think to myself.

I strain my senses again. Still nothing. I fumble for the fabric with my hands. I seem to have more strength and the fabric comes apart easier now. Soon I have removed most of the fabric from the walls. My fingers, though dry, still feel the hard surface around me. They find a small gap that moves horizontally in front of me. About at my waist. Deep enough to get a fingernail into. I trace it back and forth, admiring the sensation of my finger making contact and the sound of dry flesh dragging across the gap fills my ears in the quiet. It is soothing.

shhhhh, shhhhh, shhhh.

The rain. I see my shoes. I see the rivers of water. Then the flash. The burnt air. My perspective changes. I must have fallen. As I look up the tree is glowing. Oranges and reds trace along its bark and up the limbs. It’s beautiful. I blink.

Then I’m back in the dark. The air in this box doesn’t move. And I am so dry. A stark contrast to the dreams? Memories?

My fingers trace the confines of the box. I can’t see with my eyes, but my fingers are mapping my surroundings. Sending images into my mind. I want to move, but I am weak. All I can do is move my hands along the walls, slowly, gently. There is the gap, the edges of the wall, the fabric now bunched around me. I feel around for anything useful. Tucked near my head is a string of metal and beads. My left hand finds it and drags it to my right. Together my hands trace the contours of the chain. Bead, chain, bead, chain. Then something angular. It feels like a small sword, or a lowercase ‘T’. A cross. This is a rosary. But why would I have a rosary near my head? I haven’t been to church since… since…

FLASH. Burnt air. Beautiful colors. Has the rain stopped? I no longer feel it on my face. I know I am on the ground. I can sense the water and mud around me. But I cannot move. I cannot speak. But the rain has stopped. I look up to the sky to see the rain and am met with the kindest eyes.

My mind returns to my body. No longer am I standing in the rain. I clutch the rosary. The cross stings my palm as the edges dig into it. I want to move. I NEED to. I turn the cross over in my fingers. I wedge the longer end into the gap. I move it from side to side feeling for any changes. The path is deep, but smooth. I tap the metal cross on the wall in front of me. The sound that returns to my ears is flat and dull.

Time passes again. I don’t drift away. My hands have been working the cross into the gap for a while now. I can sense I’m making progress. The gap is widening. I work in a frenzy now. Dragging it back and forth, placing my faith in the cross. That it may lead me to salvation. Left, right, left, right.

Burnt air. The colors. The kindest eyes. They move closer to my face. As they do I fall deeper into those eyes. My vision is dimming as though I am falling through a tunnel, and I try to speak, to move, but I cannot. But the eyes. I can still see the eyes.

My hands feel raw. Dry, and split, but not bleeding. Or I don’t think they are bleeding. The texture is still so dry and rough. I fumble for the gap with my free hand. I can just feel the other side of the wall through the gap. I continue my work on the gap with the cross.

The cross grows heavy in my hands the longer I work. The sound of the chain dragging across my body with each pass is the only music I can hear. I struggle to keep the cross moving. I push and pull, push and pull, the cross getting heavier. One last push and I am spent.

I can see those eyes. They are filled with kindness and pain. And then I feel warmth across my face and a sensation of pushing as my vision darkens. As I fade into that darkness, I hear a faint voice say “My love. I am so sorry.”

I startle awake. “My love.” It lingers in my ears. I work now with a renewed frenzy. I want to see those eyes again. I want to know the face behind it. I want to remember.

I work my hands across the gap until I feel it give. Not a lot, but enough. I drop the cross to my chest, my left hand gripping the chain tightly to not lose it in the dark. With my right hand I search the gap in front of me. The opening is wide enough to pass my fingers through. And as I press them through the gap they are met with a cold resistance.

Granular.

Damp.

Gritty.

And as I remove my hand from the gap and the material reclaims its place, I realize that the salvation I seek will only be found in this next sleep.