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Dark. Dim. Obscure. Gloomy. Murky.
All of which relate to the absence or insufficiency of light.
Darkness.
A place filled with the color black that was never ending with no escape to vibrancy. A place of grief, trauma and terror. A place that haunted me since the murder-suicide of my parents. Darkness became light, but this particular light wasn't appealingly bright. There was so much heartache and pain I could feel. There, in the living room of my childhood home, are my parents: Coleen and Alfonso Bleu. The events that led to their demise caused a disturbance of rest that I have yet to experience and probably never will.
Astraphobia was his kryptonite; it was difficult to maintain his sanity when thunderstorms would arise. He despised them greatly because the terrors he'd face no matter the time of day would overwhelm him. They consumed his entire being like a demonic entity creating a home out of the living vessel of the weakest soul. It had its shackles on him unwilling to let go, and each occurrence with these storms were like a battle between life-and-death; God and Satan; Heaven and Hell. He could see his father attempting to carve his name into the flesh of his mother's arm. From that moment onward, all hell broke loose. They fought ferociously, and he could hear the pleas of his mother to his father. The look of fear in her eyes as she begged him. He remembered.
Alfonso, stop!
Stop it!
Stop it!
Please!
He tossed and turned, mumbling incoherently. Unknowingly, he gripped tightly onto the sheets as his legs began to move about underneath the duvet. Thunder crackled and roared above with a sound so profound that could shake the entire Earth's surface. The patter of the rain had gone from steady to heavy sounding like solid objects hitting the roof of the house. The louder it would get, the more intense was his nightmare. It was as if he was spiritually connected to his father having being in his shoes to feel the confusion, hallucinations, the incurable disorder that overtook his mental and the voices repeatedly telling him to kill.
I always thought I'd be just like pop in all of his positivity, but I didn't want it in that way. Nah, not like that. I couldn't fathom the thought of being just like him in everyway imaginable. Crazy. Unstable. Non compos mentis I've read in a book somewhere. I felt what my father felt, heard what he's heard, and now will perform the very sinister act I've seen at age eleven. Those voices spoke to me that night, too—low, raspy and dark.
Incoherency transitioned to coherency as a brief collequy ensued between him and the unknown.
