Flicker
The flame met the candle, and nothing was calm again.
I find I can't help but to sit alone sometimes. I sit alone in my bedroom, alone in my kitchen, alone in the attic. I sit alone in public, even with a crowd around me. I sit alone, and I sit in the darkness.
Sometimes I turn out the lights just to feel safe.
Sometimes I turn out the lights just to be afraid.
I like to sit alone, but I am never alone. You have not let me be alone since the day I met you.
Sometimes I'm grateful for it.
"Thanks," I'll say. "Your company is all I could ask for."
But you never say anything.
The way you hold me without touching me doesn't confuse me until I go to write it down.
You tell me not to worry, but you do not speak.
I asked you to tell me a story one night. I thought it would help me to fall asleep, but I was awake until four in the morning. The story you told was the story of my life, one sadness after another. Your perspective is painful and twisted and true. I know you are right, because you only hurt me when I fight you.
Your arms are ever around me, dark as tar. Dark as arterial blood. Dark as octopus ink. They swirl into one and cannot be broken apart. You don't understand why I'd want to live without you. Sometimes I think I do, but of course I'd rather be with you. It's easier to stay with you.
It's safe.
It's safer.
Sometimes when I think I'm alone I want to fight you. I cry. I scream. I try. I dream. But only of dark places. Of wolves. Of men raking at my brain matter, removing all thoughts of freedom. I dream of spiders. Live autopsies. Excisions. Pain. Blood. Darkness.
You always bring me back, though. You always tell me not to fight. It would be easier if I stopped breathing (so fast); you're right. Of course. I should stop breathing (so fast). I should stop trying (so hard). I should stop.
I should stop.
I should stop.
I can't stop.
I've heard people talk about monkeys on their back, but I've never understood. You're not a monkey and I need you and you keep me safe and you make me stopstopstop trying.
The other day I watched my left hand turn numb, because at least I could feel (it grow cold and painful before it turned white). I remember thinking how interesting it would be to watch it fall off, or to cut it open and see if it were white on the inside too.
I know you were there. You held that hand and encouraged me. For science. Don't put your hand in your pocket. See what happens. Feel something.
I got where I was going but couldn't move my legs. You didn't want me to. I stayed on the bus an extra three stops before I could move again. I have stopped caring about lateness. I [blame] thank you. I used to get so upset. Now I am calm.
Sometimes I light matches and let them burn out in my hands. I used to be scared. I used to drop them too soon. Now I am not afraid. You keep me from fear; you keep me safe. You keep me alone.
When other people try to get close. When he holds me. You try so hard to get between us. To keep me from comfort. You want to be the only source of comfort in my heart. You need me that much.
But he holds me and I know I am safe from you for a moment.
And I choose light in the mornings, to keep you away.
And I don't want you to hold me the way you do. I did not ask for this.
I asked for this.
I wanted this.
I said, "Help, please. I am afraid of being wrong, of failing, of fear itself." And you promised.
You promised.
You promised I'd be safe from fear. You promised I'd be okay. But your promises are empty; I'm still afraid. I'm afraid of not being afraid. I'm afraid of you. I'm afraid of myself.
Afraid of myself.
Sometimes I light matches and let them burn out in my hands. I am no longer scared of fire, but I am still scared.
The flame is still sacred and so are you. But you promised to love me, and sacred is farfarfar too close to scared. And you are farfarfar too close to me.
But every time I see that, you rock me back to calm. To ambivalence. To the freedom you promised, really a cage to keep me near you. Without me, you are nothing, but even knowing that is not enough. I still need you. I don't know what life would be like without you. I want to know. I think I remember what it was like to be a child before you came around, but I don't remember well. It is a foggy memory, like my days are now. Hard to remember as they happen. Hard to think through. Hard to get through at all.
The darkness helps. Fog is less noticeable in the darkness.
Sometimes I catch myself shrugging my shoulders, as though you will slip off and I will be free, but I know that I am the one keeping you here. As surely as you hold me from happiness, I hold you close to me and I won't let go.
But I want to.
I swear I want to.
But with you here, the fire isn't fearsome anymore. And I like not caring about lateness. And I've grown accustomed to your form of love--so accustomed that I cannot always remember love the way it is supposed to be. The way he feels it. The way I feel it. The way we say we feel it, in bed, in the shower, in the rain. In the light or in the darkness. We say we feel it.
But I only feel it when he is there and he feels it too. I know you are with him more strongly than with me. And I know when he does not feel it. And a part of me is jealous of you. You have more of him than I do.
Sometimes I light matches and let them burn out in my hands. I always look at my piles of unlit candles and wish I could light one. Maybe it would keep me safe. Maybe it would make me less alone. But I can never seem to move, except to strike the matches, one by one.
Sometimes I go for walks. Short or long, it doesn't matter. They can make me feel like you're gone, for a moment. Sometimes I even smile.
Yesterday I had a particularly good one. I came home and you hadn't settled in yet and I picked up a candle without thinking and I placed it in the centre of the table. Out of habit, I started to light a match, but I was still smiling, and I did not want to burn my fingers. I could feel without feeling pain. I wanted it to last. I did not want to feel pain.
I know you've meant [me only harm] well, so I'm [not] sorry that I liked the smile. I felt a glimmer that I hadn't felt in some time. Of something I've forgotten the word for. The opposite of fear. Not calm, exactly. Not the kind you bring. There was movement and real freedom in this feeling.
Hope.
Finally, in the moment I lit that match, I realized I was sick of pain.
I was sick of you. I am sick of you. I want to be rid of you.
I do not want your calm.
I will choose hope.
Finally, in the moment I lit that match, the battle really began. All my old dreams returned, and the nightmares became afraid.
The flame met the candle, and nothing was calm again.
And the Ivy
Buzz. It seemed as though the air itself were humming, trying to tell its story in the dark, fighting to be heard in the silence. Her ears felt like they were drumming along, drumming along.
Flick, click, buzz. The lamp on her nightstand joined the chorus and she fell limply back into bed, covering her face with her hands. At least now the darkness was gone, but as if they were aware of her slight comfort, the newly formed shadows rose up to envelop her once again. To bring her into the night once more.
She turned to her right. The double bed felt too large, she too small. She faced the light again, curling up even smaller, trying to escape the night. There were inky vines of ivy on the wall, alive in the flicker of the light.
I don't remember planting those, she thought.
She reached out to them but felt only the wall under her fingertips.
Then she was against the wall, breath heavy, hearing two voices intertwined like bodies, pressed tightly between the wall and ?
But things were different now.
Now the ivy held her close
, her breath was slow, and her voice was alone in the cavern of her mind. The wall was dark, but it invited her. The ivy held her close, and she was alone.
I don't remember planting those.
Her thoughts echoed through the cavern and she curled up more tightly, grabbing two fistfuls of blankets and twisting them over her head--but it was dark even there.
Buzz. The nighttime chorus still hadn't stopped, but somehow in the silence of the bedclothes, she noticed its song anew. Her ears began to drum along again.
She sat up so quickly that the blankets fell halfway off the bed. She stared at the wall again, but the ivy was gone. In its place were small, shivering shadows. She studied the lamp, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, then traced a path to the wall, but couldn't find the cause.
I guess it's all in my head, she thought, trying to laugh at herself.
The coldness of the wood floor on her feet distracted her from the mystery, and she fumbled through a pile on the floor for her housecoat. The hair on her arms and legs stood up on end from the cold. She wasn't sure why she still slept naked.
Maybe it's part of denial or something. She was barely aware of the thought as it echoed through the cavern.
Warmed by the plush fabric, she tied the coat's belt and left the room, turning on the ceiling light as she did so.
It doesn't make sense. I can't stay here any longer. Not like this.
Flicking light switches as she passed them, she went down the stairs to the kitchen and opened the fridge.
The wall clock ticked loudly. One second. Two seconds. Ten. Twenty. Sixty.
She let go of the door and let it close slowly.
Buzz. The refrigerator joined the nighttime chorus.
Splash. The cold water jolted her as she washed her face in the upstairs bathroom, the toilet still flushing after a ritual use. She picked up her sleeping pill bottle and rattled it, emptying it into her hand. She filled a cup from the tap and drank it down mechanically.
"I will fall asleep now." The words sounded hollow, and they hung in the air so long that her hair stood on end once more despite the warmth of the housecoat. Her reflection was laughing at her.
"Stop that."
"Stop being a fool."
"Don't talk to me; you're not real."
"I'm as real as you want me to be."
She shuddered, but her reflection continued to smile, watching her as she left the bathroom, and meeting her gaze in the hall mirror once again.
She ran and dove into the bed, barely hitting the light switch as she sped by it, and tucking herself in before she could hear what she was going to say.
I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. Her ears drummed along with the rhythm of her fears.
"I'm not crazy."
"Only as crazy as you want to be." The voice was unmistakeable. She'd seen the ivy, she'd talked to her reflection, but this was too much.
"No."
"Yes."
There was a pause. The cavern was filled with echoes, some so loud she couldn't hear the others.
Could it be?
It's not him.
Stop fooling yourself.
You're crazy!
It can't be.
It's all in your mind.
He'd never come back for you.
This is [isn't] real.
He's gone.
One echo was the loudest by a landslide: Why not?
"No." Something even stronger than her loneliness wouldn't let her humour herself.
But what if I'm not crazy?
"Turn around and look at me."
What if ?
"No." She squeezed her eyes shut and drew in on herself, but the voice insisted on being heard again.
"Turn. Around. And look at me."
"No!" She opened her eyes, but the ivy was dancing on the wall. Squeezing them shut again, she repeated herself: "No!"
"Yes." The voice was so calm, so sure. So dark.
There was a long pause. Her breath came unevenly and she listened once more to the chorus. Even the kitchen clock seemed to be part of it, though it was miles away from the cavern. The rattle of the pills joined in too, and--how many had she taken? Two? Two thousand? It seemed so long ago, now--the sound of them spilling over her hand onto the counter. Her own voice, laughing at her from the mirrors. The lamp. The silence.
The voice behind her.
Finally her breathing slowed and became increasingly shallow. She opened her eyes to see the ivy inches from her face, creeping, growing, yearning for her.
"Turn around," the voice repeated, more softly this time, and she closed her eyes, almost peaceful again. "Please?"
She felt a hand on her back and stopped breathing. When she was able to force her eyes open, she found the ivy all around her, roping her to the wall, covering her under and around her blankets and housecoat. Her vision began to blur while the ivy continued to grow and yearn, grow and yearn.
The hand reached around, and another slipped beneath her. Soon she felt another body next to her own, pressing ever tighter around her chest as her vision continued to blur.
It can't be him--but it's going to have to be--was the final, slow echo.
Her cavern finally emptied and her eyes finally closed.
###
Thank you for reading this collection. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer-I'd love to hear your thoughts! -Amy Neal
About the author
Amy Neal is a Canadian writer based in Ottawa, Ontario. As an author and reader, she gravitates toward thrillers, horror, and speculative fiction. Amy has a Bachelor's degree in Humanities and English literature. During her studies, some of her short fiction was published in her college's literary journal. She's spent her time since learning how hard it is to juggle a demanding day job, a desire for healthy habits, and a strong need to write.
Amy's photo is by Open Shutter Photography.
Connect with Amy
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