The thunder wakes him up, not his nasally congestion or throbbing headache, nor his feverish nightmares in which he endured. He lies in bed, heart beating from the crack of a whip. Like a bomb blast directly overhead.
A close-up of his eyes, one might see how bloodshot and weary they really are. Wide-eyed. Pupils dilated. See the fear and the sickness in them. Might even notice the stink of illness all around, of stale sweat in tangled bedsheets and a dozen throw pillows, in the pores of his sallow skin. Vicks VapoRub. Potpourri. Exhaled breath. Lingering ozone. Burnt. Flatulence. Funk.
He coughs.
His eyes pan one shadowy corner of his bedroom to the other, whenever the flashes of lightning permits him. Like welder’s flash, he shuts his eyelids and sees nothing but blue, purple and white lights. Splotches and streaks. Ghostly things.
Coughs again. Swallows.
Amid the raging storm outside, he can hear faint car alarms wailing, squealing tyres on wet bitumen and a woman screaming blue murder. Perhaps a love triangle gone awry. Someone running afoul of the police again. Another scream. One or two gunshots. Police sirens this time.
He reaches over for the nightstand, out of breath. Fumbles. Curses. He switches the lamplight on. Squinting. The dullness of the light flickers, buzzes, casting shadows over lovable items. Things most dear to him.
Here, soiled mattresses. Trash. Trash to treasure. Toys of his youth. Empty Coke bottles. Promises. Broken knickknacks. Torn magazines and folded newspapers.
Memories.
Dolly the camera to the right. There, more of the same trash. Dog and cat faeces. Now petrified. Stonelike. A little pile of dentures. Pedestal fans. DVDs. One wheelchair stacked upon the other by the window. The same window that gives out across the Wilson Inlet. Just glimpses of whitewater – monochromatic – amid jarrah and yellow tingle trees, he sees. Lightning flashes and thunder rolls. Distant kookaburras laugh.
The fear of the dark, of being alone.
His heart still beats. Now at his temples. So loud.
Memories.
He takes a dangerous dosage of ibuprofen and diazepam. Some neuroleptics for good measure. Washes the pills down with a shot of Wild Turkey. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Humph. A lozenge for his strep throat. All the same, he coughs and splutters, twisting and turning. From one painful bedsore to another, he grimaces. Winces. Some of them septic. Others will be, no doubt.
In and out of consciousness. Delirious. The light goes off, then on again. Growing dimmer, as does the pain of losing Georgina, his wife. Beloved. Georgina whom had died from colon cancer. That monstrosity. That son of a bitch. Years ago.
Ripped from his heart of all things proper. Unconditional love. Warmth. Affection. His safety net from which she held the world at bay. Gone.
Montage of memorable moments. He with Georgina. Good times. Laughter.
New scene. Bad times. Deathbed.
Still shots. He by her headstone. Sobbing and inconsolable. Roses.
How he earns for her warm embrace. Gentle kisses. Now more so than ever before, for he fears the storm. The dark. The loneliness of being a social outcast, of which it is no fault of his own. He blames others. The government. Strangers without conscience. Their greed.
Pitter-patter of rain against windowpane. Rattling gutters. Gurgling with water. Overflowing.
More thunder.
The wind almost cyclonic. From off the Southern Ocean, through the trees. Whispering and creaking, it goes. Over ancient land. Funnelling through valleys with no names. Leaning trees over at peculiar angles. Uprooting some.
He feels the stilts upon which his house is perched swaying. Back and forth. The lacy curtain of the window billows. Seasick. A draft.
He spots a rat scampering across garbage bags. Tipping things over. Then another. Scurrying. The light of his lamp casts their shadows upon the walls. Huge. Noir-like. There one second, gone the next, he huddles beneath the blankets, frightened. Strange shadows. Shadows that seem to cast their own shadows, it seems.
Sweat beads over his face. Little runnels. Salt on lips, so too the distinct taste of vomit. Bitter and foul, he licks them. So parched. Salt in eyes. He coughs. Snivels. If only Georgina were with him now to soothe such fleeting thoughts of melancholy. Suicidal ones. If only. Might he see through this storm without going completely insane?
Yes.
No.
If only.
Flashes of lightning. A clap of thunder. Thunderclap. His mind a knotted mess. Messy. His bedroom a projection of his mind, and the clutter of things broken synapses. Dead ends. Frayed thoughts but thoughts all the same. Trigger mechanisms to remind him of this and that, of Georgina.
Memories.
Zoom in on his face. See the fear there again. Etched. Mouth pulled tight, drawn down at the corners. The sickness and the pain. Of loss and longing. A world off-kilter.
He utters a little cry as everything goes dark all around him. Curses. Coughs. Hunkers down once more in a foetal position. Whimpers.
The storm continues. Lightning flashes. The earth shakes. Reverberates all around. Thunderous.
His POV now. From the corner of his eye, an almost phantasmic figure enters. From left of stage, she does. Darkness. Gone. Another flash. There again, only closer this time. A slender figure. Skin so translucent he can almost see the lightning flash through her.
Georgina.
Maybe.
She moves through the trash. Nears. Through memories. Not so much by walking but by gliding amongst it all. Mona Lisa smile. A figment of his imagination? He closes his eyes. Opens them. Gone. Maybe.
Then silence.
Feels the mattress sink in beside him. Senses it. Spring-box squeaks. Lamplight flickers back on. Flickers off. He dares not move. Not so much because of fear but because of love. The frailty of it. The feeling is suddenly an overwhelming one. Uplifting. Hot breath in ear. Whispering. Her perfumes permanents. A warm embrace. Something familiar. Safe. His sickness alleviates.
If only.
In and out of consciousness. Delirious but safe. For now. If only.
—
In recent years, Ben F. Blitzer has produced three unpublished literary novels and an unpublished novella, set in or around Perth, Western Australia. Some of his shorter works of fiction, however, feature science fiction, fantasy and horror themes. He lives in Western Australia.
