ECHO // #Wattys2017

CHAPTER 8 ~ I CAN'T SEE YOU, BUT I KNOW YOU'RE THERE

            David bought me some time with Miles and Constance. I needed time with David, time to deal with all the changes before I left, and time to try to piece myself into something recognizable.

            The first few weeks were the most excruciating. My days were spent barricaded in my dad's room, tormenting myself with the mementos of our once reasonably functional family. I sifted through photos of us on vacations, trinkets he'd collected over the years and all the ticket stubs from every movie, museum, and ball game we ever attended. They were all stuffed into an ammo can that he kept on the top shelf in the back of his closet. Amidst the chaos of our memories, I found a curiosity, a flattened bullet that looked to have exploded into the shape of a star against whatever it struck.

            "Strange," I thought aloud.

            At night, I lay in my dad's bed listening to his favorite Blues bands. I'd curl up with a pillow pressed against my stomach, swathed in the sheets that were still lightly scented by his cologne, trying to do what he did with my mom­-will her back to life.

            I always thought of grief as fleeting moments that eventually just burnt themselves out. I wasn't prepared for the most basic functions to be the most devastating. Every breath was punished by a stabbing sensation that cut through my ribs. Every heartbeat radiated an achy throb through every muscle and bone, until the emotional misery had me searching for any other kind of pain.

Sleep, when it finally found me was of little solace. It distracted me for a while, but didn't offer the peace I'd hoped for. Nightmares intruded on my unconscious mind, most of which I pushed away the instant my eyes flashed open. Some nights, I didn't sleep at all. Forcing myself to stay awake, in hopes of exhaustion to the point of passing out into a dreamless slumber.

My visions hadn't made another appearance since the last one where I dropped the girl in the hat over the cliff. Perhaps it was the part of my mind that conjured them recognizing I couldn't handle one more thing.

David checked on me every few hours, a routine that quickly became predictable. I was grateful that he wasn't the type to hover. He would peek in the door to see if I was still sleeping. As soon as he left the house, I'd run on the new treadmill in my dad's room. He meant it as a gift for when I returned from Camden; his attempt at keeping me from running outside in the heat. I left the red bow on it.

I ran until it hurt. I ran until either exhaustion or my bleeding feet made me give. Either way suited me just fine. Before it was time for David to check in again, I'd shower and return to my dad's bed.

            Based on what little I did see of David, growing scraggly facial hair, whiskey on the rocks and staring in to a vacant television screen ranked pretty high on his to do's. Over the weeks I tried a few times to get him to talk about what happened in Afghanistan, but mostly he would just stare off into empty space and shake his head. Except once. One time he was drunk enough and I managed to squeeze a few vague ramblings from him.

                 "He was there," David mumbled. 

            "Who?"

             "Out of nowhere. There and then gone," he continued staring at the blank television screen.  "It was impossibly fast." 

            "Who?" I demanded again.

            He shook his head and blinked away the memory.

            "No one. Drop it."

I felt powerless to do anything of use to ease David's suffering. It seemed like the more time that had passed, the further he slipped from me. So, I just held him, hoping it was of some comfort.