The Man Who Swallows Nightmares

down, down, down | 06

Darlene

HIS HAND HELD THE BOOK'S spine. Fingers splayed out against the hardback. His veins were pronounced, his olive tone showcased nicely against the dark brown cover with golden ivy vine spirals decorating the edges. Deep indentations were carved into the back of Malachi's hand. Scar tissue that hardened on top of the others from repeated injuries. The scars were fairer and in straight lines. During social gatherings like dances and afternoon picnics on the estate, his black leather gloves coated the truth. He left his prized gloves on his dresser. His knuckles grazed the gilded pages in preparation to turn.

He was reading in his bedchamber. It was unusual. I've never witnessed this calm domestic scene before. I frowned.

What was this about?

I was laying on my belly on the living room's carpet.

Today's work was overloaded on my shoulders. Too many co-workers needed help with their individual projects. Too many cutting close deadlines that were pressed on me. My heart said, "Those are not my deadlines," but my mind said, "As a team, it is also my deadline." Throughout the day, I tried to take a bite of my ham sandwich, but my teeth didn't get to sink down into the goodness without someone's hand slipping on my office's wall. "Darlene, could you look over my email when you get a second?" Questions followed up with additional inquiries. I scheduled my projects ahead, staying right on target. I needed to complete my steps, but instead my mouth said, "Yes, I will help," before my heart told me, "No."

I dropped my purse on the couch when I arrived home. That wasn't the only thing I dropped. That was how I got on the floor.

My jacket's sleeve rolled back down on my forearm. There was a cream thread that tapered off at the end every time I twisted the thread and cut off.

Warmth wrapped around my belly, arms, and legs. I breathed in and out. My breath hit the carpet and ricocheted on my cheeks. My nose was warm. My heartbeat sounded louder with my body weighed down. My notebook was open with the pages standing up in a fan-like position. My pencil stayed in my hand. Turning my head, I glanced down at my right hand. There were no scars on my knuckles. The blue veins under my light beige complexion. Short and jagged nails screamed what was happening in my heart. Thick wrist that held pressure, knuckles cracked and swollen from being overused and needed lotion. Then again, I was the monster who followed the story behind Malachi's hands.

I puffed another harsh exhale.

Why am I comparing my hand to his?

This was the first time describing his hand features. The thoughts poured into my mind. I couldn't look away. How odd. This was what came from the narrative.

Darlene.

Malachi seemed to straighten up from his sitting position. Where he was reading was not in his bed, but was instead a chair. The chair didn't belong in his bedchamber. The chair's arms and legs were carved into a cloud, reaching out and yet like an ocean wave, curled into intricate lines. The frame itself was sturdy but it was hidden underneath the Creation. The cherry wood gave the dark feature like a thunderstorm about to pour and unleash lightning.

I observed too much of the regal throne room chair to take notice of his attire.

How do you fair?

Odd.

I ignored his question. For what would the writer say? He could not hear me.

Pushing aside my overgrown bangs, I rubbed my eyelids. The pressure behind my skull thumped louder than my heart beat. The pencil lay in between my thumb and index finger.