Shadows

Shadows

“The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.”

                                                                                                Isaiah 9:2 King James Bible

You hear those stories about people in prisons. If you are an abuser, hurt kids or treated women badly you might end up dead. If this was what had happened to Dylan’s father no one knew. One morning he was dead. Lay still and cold in his cell. They didn’t mourn much, Dylan and his mother. Perhaps the level of mourning corresponds to the level of love.  Dylan had loved his father with all his might as children tend to do until one day his love had burst and disappeared. He didn’t miss loving his father; on the contrary not loving him was a relief.  Without the love he didn’t have to ask himself the question why. Why does daddy hurt me? Why does daddy hit mommy? Why isn’t my love enough to stop him?

The clock on the kitchen wall chimed four times and soon after the phone rang. Dylan got up from the table and answered. His mother’s voice was a little rushed as she explained she was running late and wouldn’t be home until six. But if he met her by the bus stop they could go to the diner and have pancakes for dinner.

As he sat down by the kitchen table again and opened his math book something caught his eye, a shadow of sort moved outside the window. Black and quick. The shadow was gone for a couple of seconds and then it came back again. Stopped outside the window and took the shape of a cat. Dylan got up from his chair and walked over to the window and opened. The cat looked at him with yellow eyes and then jumped down on the floor. She slithered around his legs meowing loudly.

“Yes, yes I will give you food.” He grabbed the box of Friskies and the cat ran straight up to her bowl. She started purring as he poured the little brown and red pellets into her bowl. He sat down on the floor next to her and watched her eat. She picked up the pellets delicately and then crunched them violently in between her sharp teeth.  When she was done eating she climbed up into his lap and curled up. He caressed her back, felt the thin spine under his fingers, the gleaming black fur. She closed her eyes and purred into his solar plexus.

  The nightmares had started the day his father died.  Every night the same. He was unable to turn his head but he sensed, saw black shadows filling the air behind his back. Coming closer and closer. He struggled to free himself from this feeling of helplessness. He desperately wanted to defend himself.  But no use, he could not turn around. And then he woke up.  Always sweating and shaking. His mother had bought the cat to keep him company at night. Her warm body and purring in the dark was a great comfort. For a while the dreams diminished but last week they had returned. He had overheard his mother on the phone talking about the stress of the holidays and the stress of school. Her voice had turned fuzzy around the edges when she spoke and he knew she was worried about him. The last thing he wanted was to worry his mother.

He didn’t feel stressed; actually he didn’t feel much at all. He had lived in a comfortable numbness for a few years. Except for in his dreams. The fear in his dreams was stronger and more real than anything he had ever experienced.

He had picked out a book at the library about dreams. Sat by one of the small tables and read a whole chapter about shadows. He didn’t understand a great deal and had ended up asking the librarian. An old woman in a pilly sweater who smelled of coffee and cigarettes. She hummed a few times as she read and then lifted her head and looked at him intently.

“The shadow is an image for something inside of you that you don’t want to see or believe that you feel. Or a trait.”

He had shaken his head so she continued.

“For example…” She was quiet for a few seconds. “Let’s say you are the grandchild of a Nazi. You know who the Nazis were?” He nodded as they had just started talking about World War II in school.

“So you are the grandchild of a Nazi and you think what your grandfather did was horrible. And you always say you don’t understand how he could kill all those people. But maybe deep down you know that you could do that too because…” Her voice faded.

Dylan stood still and waited. She looked above his head, her eyes grew cloudy.

“We are all mosaics. Pieces put together. Genes…personality traits…our history. Some pieces we are proud of and others we don’t want to know about. The shadows are those pieces we don’t want to know and they come into our dreams to show us something.”

The clock on the kitchen wall chimed five times. Darkness had fallen outside the window.  The cat was sound asleep in his lap, he carefully stood up not to awaken her. He walked with her in his arms to the couch and placed her in the corner where she liked to sleep. She moved a few times before she settled back into deep sleep. The Christmas tree filled the room with a multicolored glow. I wonder if she would die if I grabbed her by the neck and threw her into the wall. The thought was clear and protruding.

Two steps and he were right next to the couch, hunched over the sleeping cat. As if she had sensed his presence, she started to purr. “Stupid animal,” he whispered and the words tasted briny in his mouth. Strong and salty. “Stupid animal.” His heart was beating fiercely, the blood one thousand degrees in his veins. The skin on his back was tingling and he opened and closed his fist.  The muscles in his arms tensed up and he could feel more than envision how he picked up the cat and threw her in the wall. He could hear more than imagine when her body hit the hard wall. It would be a loud thud; maybe she would cry out and then fall lifeless to the floor.

A fire truck went by on the street. The noise and lights brought him back. He looked down at the sleeping cat. He was sweating on his back and breathing shallow, she was still purring.

The outside air was cold and raw, just below freezing and snow mud stripes on the street. He walked with his hands in his coat pockets. He had rushed out of the apartment forgetting his gloves. The sweat on his back had turned cold and sticky and he was shaking. His body felt the same way as after he had competed in track in the summer. The only difference was that now his mind was not triumphant, no his mind was shivery. Fever chills. I am no different. I am no different. I am no different.

The bus stop was deserted. He looked over at the church across the street, only a quarter to six. If he was lucky the bus would be on time, most of the time it was at least five or ten minutes late. But he did not want to go back to the apartment by himself. He sat down on the bench for a few minutes but it was too cold to sit still. He started to walk up and down the sidewalk. Counted the Christmas lights that were strung across the street in between the light posts. Each strand had 52 lights with a big star hanging in the middle.

When the church bell tolled six he stayed put at the bus stop, leaned against the fence and waited. Next to him was an icicle attached to the fence post.  It started on the top of the fence and reached several feet. The ice was so clear and clean, he touched it with his finger then he stuck out his tongue. The cold was piercing and he knew he was stuck before he had started to pull. Don’t put your tongue on ice. Don’t put your tongue on ice. His father had said this more times than he could remember and still now he was stuck. He tried to direct his breath so it would melt the ice. No use. He tried to create saliva to drizzle down his tongue. No use.

His mother would be there soon, she could help him. Suddenly he heard a loud boom and the first thought that came to his mind was that the church door across the street had slammed closed. He tried to look out of the corner of his eye. At first he didn't see anything,  then he saw them. The black shadows. They moved fast behind his back, only a few at first then more. He tried to turn around but his head was stuck. And the sound, a swooshing in the air. More, more. Closer, closer. He pulled on his tongue. The pain was burning. The shadows grew closer, pressed against his body. The cold disappeared.  He was consumed in darkness.  I am no different.

“Dylan?” His mother’s voice was so distant.  A hand on his shoulder then he tasted tea. Lukewarm Earl Grey with milk. His mother often bought a cup to bring on the bus. She had told him the cup of tea made the bus ride less tedious and sometimes she imagined she was in London instead of their own town.  She turned him around, everything was still dark. “Dylan, open your eyes.” He opened one eye; his mother’s face was blurry. He opened the other eye and blinked a few times. Her face became clear. Her brown eyes looked worried as she kneeled in front of him. “What happened?” He swallowed; he could taste the tea in his throat. “I got stuck,” he said and felt foolish. He had acted like a baby. His mother caressed his cheek. “Should we go and have dinner?”

The diner was warm and crowded. “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.” His mother sang along to Holy Night. “Mom?” She lifted her head and moved her eyes to his face. “It was just like in my dream.” She looked confused. “I was stuck and the shadows came and it all turned dark.” She put her head to the side and squinted. “You had your eyes closed.” Dylan looked down; someone had carved in the letters KNM on the table top.  He touched the letters and felt the indent with his finger. “Will I be like him?” His mother was quiet; she drank some water before she put her hand over his. “We all have choices. We can be whoever we want.” The pancakes arrived on the table and Dylan grabbed the syrup. “But what if I have it in me?” His mother cut her pancakes in small squares. Ate a couple. “Your father could be the gentlest most loving man. And then he could be the cruelest. He could have chosen differently but he didn’t.” 

Dylan got syrup on his fingers and licked it off. “But how will I know that I will…that I won’t be like him?” His mother looked out the window for a long time. “I guess you won’t. But at least you are aware of the possibility.” She stopped talking, grabbed the syrup and dribbled it over her pancakes.  “No one is completely good. No one only has light. We all have darkness inside. But depending on what we feed…” She stopped talking again. Dylan looked out the window, looked over at the bus stop. His mother had said he had his eyes closed but the shadows were still there, slithering, dark coils. Snakes, lifting their heads, looking for prey.