An excerpt from my novel, Though I Make My Bed in Sheol.
The bitter days of winter breezed by in a golden haze. Before he knew it, the steely sky thawed into tender blue, and the damp black trees began to shyly dress themselves in veils of green, white, and pink. His world was enchanted.
Whatever she touched became sacred. She cast her golden light upon every surface, gradually hallowing every corner of his existence. The smell of coffee, the sound of paper, dull white documents glaring from his inbox. It was all mysteriously imbued with expectancy, the scent of wild hope and unguarded delight.
He couldn’t think like he used to. He couldn’t apply himself to any task without his mind wandering into a froth of delighted distraction, and sinking blissfully under its weight. He was reeling, weak, and silly. He was useless for anything else.
The city, which before had towered above him, imperious, mystical, and strange — it all belonged to him. Every block of pavement, every pane of glass, every street light, and every brick — it was all there for him, and for her.
His apartment was transformed. The barren walls echoed with the sound of her voice, and the spare furniture — the chair, the couch, the bed — became priceless and rare because she had touched them. In her absence, the sight of them reminded him of every word, toss of her hair, and movement of her body. Only the box under his bed glowered silently below, unmoved, implacable, and accusing. But there it remained, unseen and unheeded.
Even after she left, traces of her remained. An earring, a pin, a strand of her hair. The very dust swirled differently in the light, and her fragrance lingered in her absence. It was their sanctuary, the only place they could be completely alone. Where nobody could disturb them, where their paradise could exist without another soul to contaminate it. They were alone in their universe, exalting in their hiddenness.
There were moments he ached to reveal it to the world, to shake everyone by the shoulders till they too came to gape at the treasure he’d unearthed. He wanted to hold it up so he could watch them marvel over his good fortune. It certainly evinced some corresponding virtue in himself, though he didn’t know what it was. He was afraid to think too much about it. To analyze the mechanics of such a miracle would be like driving a pin through a butterfly.
All the same, he relished the intricacies of his secret labor to conceal it, the devices he employed which nobody knew but him. Not even she knew, and he wanted to keep it that way. He liked the thrill he felt when he lied — the way it surged through him, cold and bracing and energizing. Of course, he rarely needed to lie. Most of his evasion was mere omission of facts, sleight of hand. And it was only his family. Who else did a man need to protect himself from? At work, he couldn’t help if people made assumptions.
For the first time, he didn’t care. He was impenetrable, immovable. It was all her doing, and he adored her for it.
But every night, after she disappeared in the tender hours of dawn and he was left alone, he lay awake. He scrolled through his phone, he tried to read, he lay staring at the ceiling, striving with himself and growing more agitated each moment that sleep evaded him.
Ever since he was a boy, he’d been plagued by bouts of insomnia. Tracing the green and brown striped wallpaper of his bedroom while his family slept contentedly in the silent house, he hoped to drift off and away from his thoughts.
But he feared sleep as much as he longed for it. His dreams terrified him, sometimes even wandering into his waking hours. He could be helping Dad and Nick with the tractor, but instead of looking at a plow attachment, he was staring at a hot, swirling maw of smoke beneath his feet, as his toes clung to a receding edge. Even as he grew older, it kept happening. He could be taking notes in a kinesiology lecture when his heart was seized with panic before a harsh, blinding light which slowly bore into his flesh.
He had found a way to endure such moments. He recited the same words, over and over again, turning them over in his mind like a talisman in his palm. Lord, I’m a sinner, the prayer began. The formula which somehow conferred him to the kingdom of light. At least, that was its purpose. For him, those words had done nothing but compound the truth that nothing could save him.
He knew he was on borrowed time. His life was a string of indefinite length which stretched as far as he could see into whiteness, but ahead was nothing but a white wall. On the other side of the wall, his fate was cruelly concealed. He had never been sure, not even in his best moments, what his fate would be. He was expected to know, but he had never been granted that luxury. The satisfaction of having his destiny sealed, the complacence he was promised to feel in those moments when terror stalked him — such comforts had neglected him.
Whatever. Forget it.
He sank into sleep, reciting.
Katie Bertola 