it.
An infomercial plays on the TV, hawking a contraption that promises to shed ten pounds in ten days. Looks more like a medieval torture device.
My sleepy fog lifts, but beneath it I find only another layer of wavering disarray. Moments ago, I was walking into my son’s room, but I’ve got no memory of what occurred after, no idea how I ended up here. Or is it actually a memory? Did the trip to my son’s room even happen?
I don’t know . . . I just don’t know . . .
My headache is raging.
I check the clock.
Wait. Moments ago?
It’s after midnight. Not only don’t I know how I got here, I also have no idea where the last several hours have gone.
Losing track of time is a problem. Drastic mood shifts are a problem. Violent and uncharacteristic outbursts . . . those aren’t so great, either. Any one of these symptoms on its own would be cause for worry, but combined—
That sleep of death, Christopher .
I startle, spin, and look around. Then I realize I’m now standing in the center of the room. I don’t remember getting here. Another problem, but right now I’m more concerned about the voice I just heard inside my head. While it seemed so real, I know it wasn’t.
My mind is getting worse.
I lean forward, bury my face in my hands, and search for clarity in a place where there seems to be none. Adam said I was fine, but what if I’ve suffered a potentially serious brain injury? If that’s the case, I’m now at a significantly higher risk for secondary trauma, the effects of which could be even more serious. I can’t afford that. Ultimately, these symptoms could affect my ability to work, and then I’ll really be in trouble.
Now, there’s this voice I keep hearing, which could point to another possibility—one far worse.
It can’t be that. It will not be.
I refuse to surrender to my past. To my father’s past. I’ve made it this far, fought for years to recover from the damage his mental illness caused me. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him win now.
Mud.
The memory resurfaces, and all I can think about now is Devon. I’m unsure if what I saw on his blanket was actually there, but I do know one thing: I can’t afford to take chances where my son’s safety is concerned. Someone could still be in the house and trying to harm him.
I rush toward the stairs.
On the way up, my mind shoots into rewind, still trying to track the evening’s events. Then I wonder why Jenna didn’t come down to wake me.
Because you scared her, you idiot, this new voice tells me, and put the fear of God in your son.
I try with all my might to ignore the voice and climb the steps faster.
I’m not an idiot, but I am an ass, and my behavior at dinner was deplorable. I know this, not only because of the horror I saw emanating from my wife but also because, during all our years of marriage, she’s n ever gone to bed angry at me. I’ll make it up to her, but first I need to see my son. Make sure he’s safe and take care of what I’d set out to do earlier—or what I think I did, before my mind decided to skip through time.
The instant I enter Devon’s room, my vision zooms to his covers. Though it’s dark, there’s enough moonlight through the window to see there is no mud on his blanket.
Another hallucination. Another sign of troubl e.
Jake is lying on the floor.
Of course he is.
I send the thought packing and focus on Devon, lying in peaceful sleep. I lean over and kiss his forehead, still fearful that I may inexplicably find myself back downstairs.
Devon responds with a gentle stir and tries to narrow his focus on me.
“I love you, kiddo,” I whisper, “and I’m very sorry for getting upset earlier. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”
He gives me an eyes-half-closed smile that, while shrouded in sleepy fog, tells me he’s already moved past it. That all is well. Seeing him this way leaves me tongue-tied. It’s as if the earlier incident never happened, as if he’s pulled
An infomercial plays on the TV, hawking a contraption that promises to shed ten pounds in ten days. Looks more like a medieval torture device.
My sleepy fog lifts, but beneath it I find only another layer of wavering disarray. Moments ago, I was walking into my son’s room, but I’ve got no memory of what occurred after, no idea how I ended up here. Or is it actually a memory? Did the trip to my son’s room even happen?
I don’t know . . . I just don’t know . . .
My headache is raging.
I check the clock.
Wait. Moments ago?
It’s after midnight. Not only don’t I know how I got here, I also have no idea where the last several hours have gone.
Losing track of time is a problem. Drastic mood shifts are a problem. Violent and uncharacteristic outbursts . . . those aren’t so great, either. Any one of these symptoms on its own would be cause for worry, but combined—
That sleep of death, Christopher .
I startle, spin, and look around. Then I realize I’m now standing in the center of the room. I don’t remember getting here. Another problem, but right now I’m more concerned about the voice I just heard inside my head. While it seemed so real, I know it wasn’t.
My mind is getting worse.
I lean forward, bury my face in my hands, and search for clarity in a place where there seems to be none. Adam said I was fine, but what if I’ve suffered a potentially serious brain injury? If that’s the case, I’m now at a significantly higher risk for secondary trauma, the effects of which could be even more serious. I can’t afford that. Ultimately, these symptoms could affect my ability to work, and then I’ll really be in trouble.
Now, there’s this voice I keep hearing, which could point to another possibility—one far worse.
It can’t be that. It will not be.
I refuse to surrender to my past. To my father’s past. I’ve made it this far, fought for years to recover from the damage his mental illness caused me. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him win now.
Mud.
The memory resurfaces, and all I can think about now is Devon. I’m unsure if what I saw on his blanket was actually there, but I do know one thing: I can’t afford to take chances where my son’s safety is concerned. Someone could still be in the house and trying to harm him.
I rush toward the stairs.
On the way up, my mind shoots into rewind, still trying to track the evening’s events. Then I wonder why Jenna didn’t come down to wake me.
Because you scared her, you idiot, this new voice tells me, and put the fear of God in your son.
I try with all my might to ignore the voice and climb the steps faster.
I’m not an idiot, but I am an ass, and my behavior at dinner was deplorable. I know this, not only because of the horror I saw emanating from my wife but also because, during all our years of marriage, she’s n ever gone to bed angry at me. I’ll make it up to her, but first I need to see my son. Make sure he’s safe and take care of what I’d set out to do earlier—or what I think I did, before my mind decided to skip through time.
The instant I enter Devon’s room, my vision zooms to his covers. Though it’s dark, there’s enough moonlight through the window to see there is no mud on his blanket.
Another hallucination. Another sign of troubl e.
Jake is lying on the floor.
Of course he is.
I send the thought packing and focus on Devon, lying in peaceful sleep. I lean over and kiss his forehead, still fearful that I may inexplicably find myself back downstairs.
Devon responds with a gentle stir and tries to narrow his focus on me.
“I love you, kiddo,” I whisper, “and I’m very sorry for getting upset earlier. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”
He gives me an eyes-half-closed smile that, while shrouded in sleepy fog, tells me he’s already moved past it. That all is well. Seeing him this way leaves me tongue-tied. It’s as if the earlier incident never happened, as if he’s pulled
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