The Alignment by Kay Camden

green eyes. I hear his voice but it sounds far away. I feel myself being lifted up, and I cry out, twisting in agony. A sudden softness cradles my body. A warm hand brushes my hair off my face. And then darkness.
    It is so bright. My eyelids feel unnaturally heavy but I struggle to open them. As I turn my head, my vision comes into focus. He’s here. Sitting on the chair, staring out the window. I look at the ceiling. The skylight. He fixed the skylight. I try to clear my throat. “Trey?”
    “How do you feel?”
    “So tired.”
    “Can you sit up?” He moves toward me to help me sit up. He returns to the chair.
    “How long was I asleep?” I blink the dried tears from my eyes.
    “Three hours.”
    It seemed so much longer than that. I feel like I should be asking what day it is.
    “Were you here the whole time?” I ask instead.
    “No. I had to go home and get something to help you.”
    His voice is a cold wind blowing through the dead grass of a barren winter landscape, lifeless and bleak. The vivid imagery in my mind surprises me.
    “I think it helped.” I wonder what it was he gave me before I realize I don’t care.
    “Yes, but it’s only temporary.”
    I stretch my legs out in front of me, looking around the room.
    “You finished cleaning?” I ask, already knowing he is the only one who could have.
    He doesn’t answer.
    My eyes focus on an object resting in his lap, the sight of which lowers me into that pit. The one I won’t escape a second time. My mind goes over the object’s soft cover and the silky pink ribbon surrounding it as if it is again in my own hands.
    Suddenly, he’s next to me, his face inches from mine. “You have a child?” He sounds like he’s choking.
    I shake my head. My heart has frozen, spreading a painful chill to the rest of my body.
    He lifts the album, still in his hands. “Is this your child?” His voice is the cold winter wind.
    “Yes.” I gasp for air. My lungs are failing.
    He lays the photo album on the couch next to him and stares into the room. I cannot breathe. When he turns back to me, his eyes are a harsh green expanding all around me like duplicate tunnels in a fun house—it doesn’t matter which one I pick, they both drop me into the darkness of his pupil. I close my eyes. The dizzying motion settles into a tight ball in the back of my head, turning prickly hot. “Stop it.” I don’t know why I say it. He can’t subdue a chaos that’s inside me.
    “You lost a child?”
    “Yes.” I want the tears to flood my burning eyes, but I cannot cry. I have cried too much already.
    “I did, too.” His voice is a desolate whisper I feel more than hear.
    We stare at each other, motionless. Time passes but I can’t break away. Our suffering cements us in place. His pain is my pain. I can see his soul. We are in a lifeboat, together, in the middle of the ocean. I can feel the waves, the gentle rocking of the boat, the sun warming my hair. We are exposed, alone, lost. No one will ever find us here. We will die here.
    The boat begins to rock harder. I’m unable to sit still anymore. I have to grasp the sides of the boat to keep myself upright. And like dominoes falling, one by one, I start losing my hard-earned control.
    “Where did you find that?” I say. It’s his fault I’ll be imprisoned in the pit again, buried under the weighted darkness. I packed that album away. I wasn’t ready to see it.
    He blinks. He can’t speak.
    “I want to know where you found that!” Who is that screaming? It hurts my ears. I point to the album.
    He looks at the album. He looks back at me, his lips parted, his face expressionless. “In the clutter. On the bedroom floor.”
    My ears pound. Someone screams again. “You had no right!”
    I lash out, and my wrists are caught. He yanks me to standing. The vertebrae in my neck pop from the force.
    His pupils are dilated, his breath comes in short bursts. I see an unstoppable fury unleashed before me. With it comes a clarity, a