Darkness (No time, part 10)

It’s always darkest before the dawn. She thought about the phrase, not knowing it might have been coined by clergyman Thomas Fuller mid-seventeenth century, in his 1650 book A Pisgah-Sight of Palestine and the Confines Thereof. That wasn’t unusual, since almost nobody knew about that book. It might also have come from an Irish folk saying, the darkest hour of all is the hour before day. What she did know was that it was a very dark evening that surrounded her as she walked back to her place after the long discussion with him had led her to think about more things than she wanted to think about. She was tired after a long day that had begun at Maquoit Bay before they had ended up at his place. 

Between midnight and dawn is never an easy time, and many things can happen, but she was not afraid because she knew she could outrun any person or animal who might decide to pursue her. Nevertheless, she felt uneasy as she walked and was relieved when she reached her door, slipped through it, then locked it. It must be the part of the conversation where he showed her the lock of hair in the old box and told her the whole story. Still, why am I so uneasy? she wondered as she slipped off her denim jacket and hung it on a hook by the door.

Yes, sleep was not going to be easy to locate. She already knew that, but instead of lying awake the entire night, she thought she might read a little. That in itself was something new for her. She found a book and slid under the blanket that was the nicest shade of blue she’d ever seen: quite the contrast with the thought of the pitch black night outside.

She only read about three pages before drifting off. Then, around three o’clock in the morning, she sat up straight in her bed, fully awake. An owl was hooting softly from a tree in the backyard. Then a nightjar joined in. Shortly after that, a nightingale joined the chorus. This was quite unusual, she thought, even though she wasn’t an expert in birds. She got up and went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Sitting at the small table, she let her thoughts return to the black hole of her childhood and found herself sinking into it again. It was a memory that rode on her back whenever she ket her guard down. This time the memory was weightier than usual, because of things he’d said,

It’s not his fault, she protested, unsure of what she was trying to defend, yet aware that his words had reached some part of her that she refused to accept. I am broken, she thought, then laughed at the drama of it all. Then she got up and headed toward the darkness. As always, it was waiting for her. All the masks were in place.

She knocked on the door this time, and heard a raspy voice ask who was there. It’s me, she replied, thinking it was a bad, maybe a dangerous, answer.

Who are you? answered someone who should have recognized her voice.

You know who I am. Or did she? Had she ever known? Certainly she had never cared. She knew that. This time she didn’t enter because stepping over the threshold, she knew, would be like the guillotine. She heard the others move toward the door, either to listen or to speak. She steeled herself to their images, pretending they were figures made of cardboard. The gloom of the interior was granitic and black. Still, she did not run, did not run away. She had already done that twice and it was time to stop doing that.

Why did you do those things? She asked, struggling to keep her voice from shaking and her throat from closing up. She felt like a river that was running dry, but she persisted.

Did you like doing those things? Was I the only one? Did you ever feel bad about any of what you did? Do you know why you were like that? Are you sorry? These questions and many others flowed from her mouth like brackish water and nearly made her vomit. She had to do, though, had to try to get answers so she could put them all in a category or hole in her memory and keep them there forever. She thought of the Cabinet of Curiosities he had made with something that resembled tenderness and felt so washed away by her grief that she had to turn away from that last conversation and probe for more answers. Maybe not probe: stab was more like it. She would achieve her goal only by not giving in to the sadness that was flooding her, threatening to wash away the sanity she’d built for herself since she left.

Why me? Was I a bad girl? Were you tired or feeling ill? If I hadn’t run away, what did you plan to do with me? Did anyone else know about the things you were doing? Did anyone teach you or encourage you to act the way you did?

She thought she’d never stop asking, that she couldn’t stop because if she did, she’d evaporate like water in a desert. The thing was, they didn’t really answer any of her questions, even though they looked at one another, their expressions unreadable. Then she heard something: Leonard Cohen’s song about his ‘secret life’ that tells of the time when the singer could live a kind, ethical life, but then those around him forced him to obey a new moral code, which was not moral at all and made him swallow everything he knew and felt. To become soulless.

While the song was a pitiful portrait of modern society, something about it spurred her on, something that she realized she and the singer had in common. And she kept battering them with questions, hoping for answers that never came. They all just looked puzzled, as if she were speaking another language or addressing the wrong people. That was when she understood that she didn’t need the actual answers, that she just needed to ask the questions. Knowing what they thought was not important and there was no justification for anything she had experienced as a girl. 

She backed away from the opening of the door, never turning around so as not to be assaulted. Her movements were slow and deliberate. She had seen that trying to talk with people like them, who wore masks, never contained any truths. They were burnt and empty, withered corpses with the stench of cruelty oozing from their forms. This time the visit had been to ask them to explain her childhood to her, but she no longer cared about what they had to say. Like with liars who never understand what they are lying about, she saw that she no longer was listening to them. They were never going to say anything human.

She left and went home. She didn’t run. She walked to her front door and stepped over the threshold. There was no pain.

The trip had taken several hours and dawn was appearing above the trees. It was an impressive sight. She was weary, however.

When she awoke, she realized it had probably all been just a dream, down to the cup of tea at the kitchen table. 

When she looked down at her hands on the blanket, her fingers had traces of soot.