The Night

The dark doesn’t flinch.

- K.B.

•  

2:06 A.M.  

The angel had come and demons followed with. The child of poor fortune had fallen asleep watching a television show that starred sixteen year old girls who had been impregnated by what they called their baby daddies. The baby daddies hadn’t used contraceptives for lots of reasons. Some were drunk. Some were catholic. Sometimes the rubber broke. But, this was of no concern to the misfortunate child, so he lethargically ascended from the stained sofa and tiptoed to his room. Shirt and shorts off, tattered and torn pajamas on. A twist of the lamp switch brought a dusty plume and darkness to the room. The only source of light radiated from the night light by the door. The stale sheets enveloped the child like still pond water, unsettling and dense. Eyes open with the sudden awareness of wakefulness, the boy lay nose up, head back, and arms pinned at his sides with restraint strap sheets hugging uncomfortably tight. The child closed his eyes, in hopes of satisfying his body’s addiction to melatonin and other chemicals. Such a shame for a four year old to have an addiction. 

3:48 A.M.

The fortunate child hung in the palpable innervation of worlds. Fading out of sleep and into consciousness, fading back into sleep. The earliest stages of sleep. A hypnonetic jerk sent his foot into the wall, rendering a sharp quick pain and pop of noise. A rapid transition into consciousness woke the boy, with rapid heart beats greeting him. Drenched in dense sweat, the child looked around his room, reconstructing his reality. Scattered tissues on the floor reassured him that this was in fact real (reality) and specifically, really his room. See, the boy was convinced that he was the only eleven year old that chronically masturbated--the tissues evidence that this room was specifically his. Confident in his setting, the child ascended from the bed, ventured to bathroom, pissed in and around the toilet, wet his hands, and sank back into the damp sheets. Such a shame for an eleven year old to have insecurities. 

3:49 A.M.

The misfortunate child woke. His addiction had not been satiated. Eyes open, skin dry. It felt as if the dampness of the sheets had been absorbed by his pores, for they were now dry, thin, and settling. This was uncommon, and unsettling to the child (the dawn is always driest before the dark). The night light radiated uncharacteristically dim, leaving many nooks of the room in blackness, as the child opened his eyes wider, only to see less. The darkness oozed into the remaining illuminated areas. It oozed into his head. Beyond the room, the boy heard the flick of a lighter. His brain was conditioned to the sound. The lighter lit again, eliciting fear. 

Being frightened heightened his other four senses. The dry sheets corroded his skin. Sounds entered the boys ears. Cracks and creeks in the floors and wisps of agony in the walls resonated through the house’s skeleton. The child knew precisely the sort of night this night was. Water flooding villages, vindicating life’s purposelessness. Since the boy’s birth, he loathed the nights . . . and had no inclination of when, or that, these nights would cease. Wooden floor boards dense with death, weak with liquid. On these nights, angels dusted his father. And, backwards and incomprehensible to the boy, the dust changed his father. See, the dust sent an abnormal amount and variation of chemicals into the father’s brain. These chemicals antagonized the father’s head. They made the father’s brain wet, disassociating his body from the world around him. He would say things the misfortunate child did not understand, do things that the boy did not like, and see things the child did not see. The boy knew, that when the angel came, demons followed with. 

4:02 A.M. 

The fortunate child woke. The moisture in his lips had desiccated, thin splits ran from one side of his mouth to the other--some still quarter full with metallic-tasting-liquid. The boy’s skeleton felt feeble in his skin. And his eyes . . . behind his eyes, near the sockets, a pain pulsated. It washed from the sockets to the back of his skull--back to the front of his eyes. His mouth salivated. It oozed, enveloped, and toyed his teeth. Saliva accumulated beneath his tongue and around his gums. The boy quickly turned over, snatched a tissue, and rid himself of the thick pool. It returned, his mouth quickly reaching its capacity, full of the dense liquid. A wave of nausea ascended up his esophagus. Heave and hell-begone. He heaved. The eleven year old strung together a colorful myriad of curses and obscenities as he heaved and heaved. No dice. The nausea was not lifting. 

Realizing the gravity of his terrible realization, the boy sighed, spat again, and spewed curses at god and genetics. The room vibrated . . . colors and spatial dimensions construed into disorienting fashions. Pills. He needed pills before it got worst; before he reached the point of no-returning the vomit caked sheets or the fist punctured dry wall to their respected distributers. 

3:52 A.M. 

Surly, but slowly, the misfortunate child heard some indiscernible string of muttering from the hall. The child rose from his bed and placed his ear to the door. He made out what sounded like the speaking of tongues. Enndondasixdthdeygawdmeldalthe . . . the slew of indiscernible gibberish curled in and up the cracks of the door, into the ears of the boy. He heard: And on the sixth day, god held all the world’s fleeting flaws. And on the seventh day, he wept in horror of what he saw. Lie still. A body cleansed in contaminated water. Lie still. Before another son loses the father. We’re just another Jesus Christ, dying to save someone. And on the sixth day, god held all the world’s fleeting flaws. And on the seventh day, he wept in horror of what he saw. Lie still.

The now discernible words and their tonality tightened the boy’s skeleton. He stood frozen, ear involuntarily pressed against the door, his fists clenched taught and painfully, nails slowly sinking through layers of skin, creating a salty-metallic-blood-sweat mixture. The night induced the boy’s fright, flight, or fight response. Fright. Perpetuating and consuming. To fight back when attacked . . . a dog has that kind of courage. The devil lobbied from the boy’s shoulder: what dog prevails against demons?

Prudence and paranormal impulses sent the child from door to floor, under the bed. You can hide, you cannot run. Phrases of fear and far from safety slithered from the shadows into his head. Slow down your racing mind. The boy shriveled his bony frame, tucked feebly and futilely under the dusty mattress. 

4:20 A.M.

Stepping consciously light over the creek-prone wooden floors, the fortunate boy ventured to the chemical cabinet. His father had taught him how to walk silently--like the indians and channel seventy-one’s hunting show hosts. Heel down, followed by mid-foot-arch, then spiderweb gripped by thin toes. In spite of his training, his balance, however, was greatly impaired. The headache distorted his vision and dexterity. Wobbles and woe! don’t let your holy land and that counter collide. The boy had, however, experienced many headaches before, and established many don’ts and do’s. Moving lethargically and carefully was most advantageous. Jerks or quick movements would incite sharp piercing pains in his eyes and temples. Most foods would worsen the nausea. Sugary foods specifically, would exacerbate the migraine quickly and out of control. Food was out of the question. 

Pills. And water. 

His Cherokee stealth training prevailed. He reached the cabinet, and grabbed the ibuprofen. One? Two? Four? He was fairly certain that no amount would help. Eight ounces of water and eight hundred milligrams later . . . his existence embodied the feeling of feeling like shit. Pausing at the dinning table, death gripping the chair in front of him, he stood as still as he could. Don’t move, your coming with us. Panic was imminent. Don't resist. He could not resist. He retreated to his room and collapsed into bed. 

He coveted sleep. He could endure the pain if he was asleep. But, the longer he remained awake, the worse the pain would become. The worse the pain became, the longer he would would remain awake. Realizing his dilemma, the child began to pray:

god, fucking help me.

3:55 A.M.

the heart pulsates

Dust collected in the misfortunate child’s throat. 

you are not alone tonight

His shakes persisted.

and what bites bitter

Clenching. Teething on teeth.

that neither am I

4:25 A.M.

The fortunate boy prayed. And godamnit, he prayed hard. To no avail. Pain lapped in and out in tempo through his skull. Tears welled in his eyes. His breathing was rapid. A combination of crying and excessive-salivation brought a tide like surging of saliva with each exhalation. 

(Un)guided meditation. Go to your happier place. He forced fabrications. Northern Michigan beaches, water docilely lapping to and fro, massaging the beach front, beautiful women twice his age strutting in minus nipple-nude attire (forcing him to roll onto stomach, concealing the evidently erect), the wind teasing his back . . . he was winning, by gods he was winning. The waves washed up the beach, into his toes, up his appendages, through the torso, neck, and into his inflamed eye sockets. The brisk water drowned the devil’s drums, as the cranium fire began to sizzle and stifle. In his temporary relief, sunday school logic rang through the halls of his head:

sometimes, to be amongst god, you must walk through hell.   

3:56 A.M.

The boy of poor fortune watched the shadows and specters dance around his bed.

the Lord of the Flies

They cackled and cried.

caught thousands of eyes

He felt the floor give under his father’s weight. 

and ripped out mine

The door handle twisted. 

for a dishonest mistake.

4:27 A.M.

Beach fronts and big breasts receded, like the tide. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. The fortunate child relapsed. The migraine had returned and hell followed with god’s absence disavowed. Options spent, the boy proceeded to bawl. Inside his gut, a tiny flame kindled. He called this flame rage. Unfortunate for the fortunate boy, it began to grow.

3:57 A.M. 

Splinters of light slid through the expanding crack. The door opened patiently, slowly and surely revealing what it previously concealed. The misfortunate child’s father sat within the dimensions of the door. Perched in his wheel chair, the father eased forward a tad, brought his hand to floor level--within the boy’s sight. Two light curls of his fingers summoned the boy from under the bed, into his father’s presence. The child rose, eyes to eyes with his father and his demons. 

4:31 A.M. 

The flame in the fortunate boy’s belly traveled to his chest, up his throat, and to his head. Malevolent heat colonized his skull. The waves of pain increased in speed, duration, and intensity. He rolled onto his stomach, pressed his face to the pillow, and seethed. Moist pillow covers and callow principles, indistinguishable from animals acting instinctually. With inhuman speed, the child sent his fist into the wall. He hit a stud. He struck again. Delusional thoughts pin-balled between both halves of his brain. 

discipline the hand of god, if he fails to strike. 

He struck once more, each individual knuckle aiding in tearing through the flaky dry wall. White dust plumed and coated the air and his knuckles. Adrenaline was released into his blood, but was ineffective in pacifying the pain. Fight through it. Fight? The child smirked the night’s single smile. This was not a fight, the child’s brain screamed. Any meathead-fucker could whoop a cripple. 

4:01 A.M.

“Son, do not adjust to the dark, you will be afraid soon. See, darkness is a peculiar thing . . . it’s part of me, and it’s particular of you.”

The less fortunate child continued being frozen, as his father explained that he too, had once hid under the bed in fear. He referred to this as the monsters in his closet relocating residences, making little sense to the boy. The father placed his hands on the wheels of his wheel chair, propelling himself towards his son. One inch, two inch. Hot breath--stale and vile--paced out the father’s teeth. God moves your limbs, but “come closer, son.” The child of terrible fortune apprehensively and unwillingly stepped towards his father. Closer. Another step taken. Both of them locked in gazes. The father’s eyes, black and agape, pierced the boy’s fragile candy eyes. The man (and his demons)’s mouth arched on one side, eyes gleaming bright and dark and devilish. The smirk made the boy’s stomach twist. 

“I’ve got a wonderful secret.” Whispered the father.

“If you can keep it.” 

The boy nodded a hesitant nod. 

“Similar, but of infinitely less glory, we share a relationship identical to the heavenly father and his son.”

The boy looked a petrified, perplexed look.

“But son . . . I feel . . . like my presence is not welcome.”

The boy spoke mutely, incapable of speaking.

“Like . . . being near you writhes you into discomfort . . . ”

Blink and won’t-begone. The child could not, even in all his wishful might, wish (blink) his father and his demons away. Don’t blink.  

“Dissimilar to the benevolent lord and the holy offspring’s place at his side . . . I feel that you, my son, are seated awkwardly at the left hand of god.”

The boy’s brain pumped drugs into his body that made his knees tremble, bend, and buckle. 

“My boy,” sighed the father.

“Are you the lamb of god? Or mere child? A child . . . with sweet teeth and legos bequeathed?” 

The boy understood that he was queued to speak, but had no answers for his father (and his demons)’s questions.

“Candy bars?” Jeered the father.

“The most shiny hot wheel cars?”

Loss of breath did not aid the child in thinking, or articulating his inability to do so. 

“Son . . . satiate the wrath of god.”

or 

“Hallowed be thy shame.” 

4:43 A.M. 

Self-help therapy had failed the fortunate child. Laying in the deriding darkness, fighting a fixed fight, predetermined and fantastically hopeless. Pulses of pain struck rhythmically, further crippling the already crippled. Cognitive abilities completely deteriorated. Basic motor skills and perceptions remained functioning, but greatly impaired. No novel solution would manifest now, at least not by the boy’s doing. Automatic and programmed, his computer chip brain conducted his rise from bed and the tears and sweat beading and bellowing from his body’s pores and ducts. Beyond any hope of abating the pain, the boy conceded. He crawled into the night . . . seeking solace, safety . . . simple and infantile. He staggered from his box-in a-building room, into the dimly lit hallway. Happy stagger, bring relief. 

4:02 A.M. 

The night light radiated with bipolar vivacity, unveiling the father’s carnal jaw construction, head cocked malignantly, glaring hungrily at the misfortunate boy’s candy eyes. Time and space no longer existed within the child’s toy-box of conceptions. The creeks, cracks, and wisps of agony retreated in fear, the house’s skeleton feeble and silent. Such stillness resides only in fictive tales and far-fetched realities. This night, in Bakersfield California, such stillness resided. Such tranquility, that only occurs when god peers upon his monsters from ground level . . . paralyzing the frame to examine its pixels and all their glorious intricacy. Stopping, starting, rewinding, a deity’s personal TiVo account. 

The four year old child had reached the last of the loathed nights. The father extended his hands. The night light in the corner was forever stifled. Dense liquid replaced the little luminance, washing out the light and down the walls of the room and reality. The child, before this moment, had never been tucked in, or into. Not into bed or a car seat. No forts fortified by blankets, pillows, or parental guidance. The father tucked into the boy’s candy eyes. The misfortunate child’s brain shut off. He fell to the floor. In the infinite night, the child discerned an approaching distorted figure . . . light, airy, celestial . . . angelic and assuaging in its movement. The angel had come, the boy’s brain whispered. 

Eye to eye with the angel, the boy starred with infantile fascination. The angel dipped down to the floor, gently placing the boy’s head in it’s hands. The angel brought its face to the side of the boy’s, mouth to ear, secret shattering fashion. The boy heard:

broken crayons lay breaking with christ and corroded dreams

the beaten path and the trail of tears run parallel

ducts desiccated

open your eyes child

open your arms to the flies

see with your eyes half open and your heart whole hated

and shatter any glass that is not completely full. 

4:44 A.M. 

A staggering pubescent, a stifled stout heart. The eleven year old boy of good fortune wandered in the middle-class wilderness. Conceding to the fixed fight, permitting his opponent to smear pride, consciousness, and dense red liquid deep into the fabric of the ring’s white musty floor. Each step towards the half-open door, across the home--a bloody liquid pool spewed through teeth, a near collapse to the floor, staggering--battling--to the door. Auras of hell and heaven danced across a defined self-defined reality. Intense detesting of sound and light and movement, mere apathetic atrophy. Prognosis, prescribed fears and phobias. Passing the kitchen, past the laundry, stepping into the door’s dimensions. His steps and changes in light, rays blocked by the boy, woke the mother. She stirred, rolled from belly to bedside, and mumbled: “honey?” 

Pause. 

“I have never been in this much pain,” the boy’s autopilot professed, eyes swollen with frustration, fear, and loathing. The mother knew her child, brain and all. She knew how the chemicals in his brain made him feel and think. She knew his genes were like her’s and his pap's.  

“Mom,” the child droned. 

“This fucking hurts.” 

My lack of grace, pissing euphemisms. 

The mother’s eyes, assuaging and angelic, called the boy. His father’s side of the bed vacant, his absence avowed and known in the night. The child weakly collapsed into bed, breath pacing--two quarters whimpering, one quarter conscious, one quarter robot. 

The boy shriveled his bony frame feebly, gravitating towards body heat, a single serving hospice, his temples coveting touch. The mother extended her hands. It was the end of the loathed night. The boy perceived the tips of his mother’s fingers. Gentle circles of a benevolent whirlpool, lapping round and round, brisk, allaying water, oozing into his permeable pores. The mother tucked the preheated comforter under the boy’s torso and appendages. As the pain dissipated, the boy’s skeleton loosened, easing into a long deprived comfort. As the boy faded in and out and back into consciousness, his mother ran her nails lightly up and down his back. Near black-out comfort, suspended in the innervation of worlds, the boy’s ears perceived words of never forget or be forgotten. Words too heavy to speak, too heartening to deafen. The mother spoke mutely and the boy heard:

they walk among the dead

they walk among the living

they walk among the kindred

you drift in the infinite night

will you not come home?

will you clench your fists for one last fight?

or will you just come home?

just to tell your mother it won't be alright.