Again

And the routine continues.

I wake up to rustling leaves above me. “Where am I now?” I open my eyes to a squint, partially covering them with my hand, and take in the intense light of the sun shining into the crevices between my fingers. The sky, nearly void of all clouds, looms above. Its boundaries seemingly endless, engulfing me.

I want to scream, but I don’t. “You are too mature for screaming,” I tell myself, my hand now at the side of my scalp, slowly running my fingers through my hair.

Trees surround me—“I want to see my son”—and the deafening sound of nothingness fills my ears. I pull at them, trying to get the sound out. “Why won’t the sound get OUT!”

I get up and frantically look around. “Anyone there?” I shout. No response. I begin to walk.

I find a road, a path that might even be the way to him. I run onto the yellow line, waving my arms frantically. “Stop, stop!” No one stops. The cars continue to zoom by, ignoring me—stop ignoring me!

I need to leave. I need to get off this road. I need to find him.

I follow the yellow line, head shaking feverishly, feeling giddy as I head toward my son’s open arms and loving smile. Oh, how happy he will be. I can’t wait to sit on the couch and read to him… The Yellow Wallpaper, that’s what I'll read. He’ll love it!

Water trickles down my forehead. Slowly descending. Slowly reaching my dry lips. Ever so slowly… “Faster!” I can’t take it anymore. Bringing my finger to my cheekbone, I press onto the drop and drag it down into my mouth, only removing my hand when I taste the saltiness of my sweat.

I enter the dense forest, allowing the trees to consume me once again. I am lost, and yet, it's normal. Helplessness feels custom. Panic, like breathing.

The soft dirt is like a pillow beneath my bare feet, the grass molding around the outline of my toes. I sigh, the forest fumes flow into my body, becoming part of me. I am the forest.

An image of him appears. His dark curly hair, his piercing blue eyes. He sits, his piles of toy cars and animals encircling him. I don’t want to be the forest. I want to be a father. “I want to see my son!”

I wander through the tree-littered terrain in search of the way out. Not just any way out, because there are many, but the way out that leads me in the right direction, the way out that leads me to him.

Hours go by, and the minutes speed past. I need it to stop. I need time to stop. If only I could grab it, physically stop it myself—prevent it from taking more time away from me and my son. I reach out my hand, grasping at the air. “Slow down!” It won’t slow down. “Stop!” My hand clenches tightly, holding time still, but it keeps going.

I run. I run forever. I run past the trees, and more trees, and even more trees. I run to find him. I run to escape. I don’t think I will ever stop running.

I discover a well. Its stone, devoured almost entirely by moss, draws me in. I take a few steps closer, my lips slowly pulling apart from each other in anticipation. “Water,” my eyes widen as I look down the dark abyss before me and glimpse the slight glare of sunlight on the surface of the liquid.

I rest my hand on the edge of the well and immediately pull back, my palm covered in blood, the fluid sliding down my wrist onto my forearm.

I look up. A pool of crimson liquid engulfs the otherwise white wooden panels of the roof. A few droplets fall, one of which lands on the back of my outstretched hand. I wait. Another one falls, again landing between the knuckles of my middle and ring finger. I wait once more, exhilarated by the falling blood. A third one drops. I catch it with my thumb, tilting my hand so it slowly slides across to my pinky.

I see Him again. He begins to tear up as I peel off his little arms from around my leg. I need to leave. He sits there, amongst the browns and greens of the carpeted floor, the feeling of betrayal evident in his blue eyes and scrunched-up face. The door shuts.

I grab the rope of the well and pull. Each heave brings the bucket at the bottom closer, brings the water closer. I pull harder, my skin burning as the fiber rubs against it. It reaches the top. I scream. This time of joy.

The bucket is in my mouth, the water gushing down my throat. I bring it down to my hands and pour the remaining liquid onto my blood-stained palm, cleaning me.

I make my way through the forest once more. Mind clear. The silence, instead of suffocating, comforts. My son, still at the forefront of my mind, his eyes cutting me.

Determined. Legs pushing and pulling, arms swaying, I head to the end. Trees gone. The sky, no longer bright, the sun tucked beneath the dark blanket of night. The forest behind me.

A large white manor towers before me, casting a cold shadow onto the beige driveway littered with black automobiles. Columns stand guard at the front, soldiers protecting their king. A breeze, and a small scooter moves ever so slightly across the grey veranda, which bows its head before magnificent double doors. Like royalty, they watch, covered in gold and jewels.

I plod towards the door, every breath squeezing its way out of my lungs. My right hand, damp with dry blood still clinging to my pinky, sticks out, grabbing at the silver handles. I push.

The door swings open and… I am home. I relax. My shoulders untense and slowly deflate until they reach their resting position. I step forward, walking into the magnificent lobby, as the light of the chandelier spreads itself throughout the house.

My heart kicks against my ribs. I grab onto the wall, steadying myself. He’s here. I know it. I pull my hands away, leaving a light imprint of blood on the off-white wallpaper. I take a heavy breath, inhaling the cool air that wafts in through the vents. I am back in control.

I make my way up one of the staircases that seem to hug the lobby, its black wooden railing studded with intricate designs. As I climb, my eyes remain steady ahead, locked onto the next step, and then the next step. I climb for what feels like centuries until I finally arrive at the top. Nearly there. Nearly at my son.

I stare down the hall. Darkness has spread itself across the corridor. No matter. His room is the second one on the left, a beam of light protrudes from under the door. I rush ahead and, in a quick motion, twist the golden knob and push it in.

He’s there. In his bed. His hair. His eyes. He lies still. I walk closer. He doesn’t blink. Something is off. Closer. I look down at his pale skin and feel his cold wrist.

An ocean pours out from me. “I'm too late,” the words barely escape my breath. I sob uncontrollably. My face contorts, attempting to hold in the pain, push it back, ignore it.

My eyes get heavy. I sit down next to my son. The large mattress, warm, compresses under me. The muffled sound of the air conditioning plays in the background. I try to keep my eyelids from falling, but it is becoming too difficult. I lie down beside him. His warmth lingers in the sheets—phantom heat, or memory, I can’t tell. The pillow welcomes me. Whispers to rest. I try to resist, to keep my eyes open, to stay with him. But everything blurs. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. But I give in.