The Darkest Hour
By Wayne Mansfield
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2016 Wayne Mansfield
ISBN 9781634860390
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
To all survivors of depression—and those who are still in the darkness.
* * * *
The Darkest Hour
By Wayne Mansfield
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 1
They say the darkest hour is just before the dawn, but what if the dawn never comes? What if you’re lost in perpetual darkness, a netherworld between the living and the dead? Getting out of bed in the morning requires so much effort that on weekends you don’t even bother. And on those days when duty necessitates your presence in the world, all you can think about for the remainder of the day is returning to the sanctuary provided by those cotton sheets and down-filled pillows.
I slid slowly into the darkness, unaware of the long, long night ahead.
* * * *
It was May. I can’t remember the date and even if I could, it wouldn’t make any difference. These types of things don’t just appear. They fester beneath the surface until one day you simply become aware of their existence. They ambush you. By the time they reveal themselves, it’s too late. You are ensnared in the darkness with no flashlight and no map.
The morning began as most other mornings did. I woke up. I feel that’s always a good start. But I lingered in bed, reluctant to join the world. At some point my thoughts turned to the painting I was working on. I was pleased with the way it was going and if I finished it in time, I’d be able to include it in my upcoming exhibition at the Delaney Gallery. At once motivated, I climbed out of bed.
I padded naked into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. There were croissants on a plate in the refrigerator so I grabbed one and bit the end off. I couldn’t be bothered heating it up. That would take time and now I was up, I was eager to get on with my painting.
My studio was a wooden cabin near the north-east corner of my back garden. It was spacious, light, and airy. There were ceiling to floor windows along the front and down one side, and a vast skylight comprised a third of the roof. Behind the cabin was a thicket of trees and shrubs, and approaching it I felt as though I were approaching another world. I had no fear of being caught strolling naked across my back lawn by a curious neighbour since the fences on both sides of my yard were high and hidden by dense shrubbery. I felt completely at ease.
I pushed open the door. The room was thick with all the familiar smells of the artist—oil paint, turpentine, linseed oil. There was a paint smeared coat hanging on a hook by the door, but I left it there. It was going to be a scorcher and on days like that I preferred to work in the nude.
The canvas—a beach scene I was painting from photographs I’d taken two months earlier—was perched on a large easel in the corner where the two full-length windows met. I looked at it for a minute or two, assessing the work I’d done the previous day. Stepping back, I cocked my head to admire the way I’d executed the froth capping the curling waves. I was also pleased with the way I’d captured the sunlight reflecting on the water. The vast expanse of blue sky overhead bothered me though. It needed something. A seagull, perhaps.
I walked across to the wooden table where I kept my large collection of paints and brushes and pulled open one of the drawers. I took out an old biscuit tin with Prince Charles and Princess Diana on the lid and flipped it open. Inside was a mess of photographs, mostly of the sea. The sea was what I painted. I fossicked about until I’d found what I was looking for—seagulls. I twisted off a small piece of Blu-Tack and used it to fix the photos to the window beside the easel.
Finally, I was ready to commence painting.
Time meant nothing when I was working. I became lost in the brushstrokes. Sometimes I was only vaguely aware of the light fading as the sun began its descent into the western sky. My eyes would automatically adjust to the dimming light and I’d continue painting until it became impossible to see what I was doing.
I gave the gull an eye and stepped back to see what the finished sea bird did for the painting as a whole. I was pleased. Not only did it break up the swathe of blue at the top of the picture, but it also balanced the painting and gave it more depth. It was therefore a mystery to me as to why I was suddenly crying. Not sobbing. Crying. Tears were flooding down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop them. I wiped my eyes on the back of my arm then went across to the table to get a tissue. I blew my nose and still the tears fell.
Accompanying the tears was a sense of utter sadness. I couldn’t have felt more devastated if my best friend had died, which he hadn’t. I examined my feelings—emptiness, despair, misery. Yet what had brought on this sudden and intense outburst? I was baffled and more than a little alarmed, since this had been occurring now for over a month. I blew my nose again.
The tears finally dried, but I was no longer in the mood to paint. I dropped the brushes I’d been using into a jar of turpentine, picked up my empty coffee cup, and returned to the house to run a bath.
Immersed in warm water I rested my head against the porcelain edge and closed my eyes. I felt safe and secure. I was back in the womb; protected from the world. I didn’t want to leave the warm water and when it started to cool, I ran more hot water. I lay there, caressed by the liquid, even though my fingers had begun to wrinkle. I could have stayed there all afternoon, but I had to go to the supermarket. I was out of milk and bread. I needed fresh vegetables and I was suddenly in the mood for potato chips.
I dried myself and dressed, finger combing my short damp hair in the mirror by the front door. Five minutes later I was on the road.
It wasn’t far to the supermarket. A ten-minute drive. I was stopped at a red light when I could feel it coming back, that sense of overwhelming sadness. It rose inside me like an awakening beast, for that’s exactly what it was—a beast. The tears began to flow. I looked at the driver of the car parked beside me. Thank God he wasn’t looking at me. Thank God I had my sunglasses on.
The light changed to green and in no time at all I was at the shopping centre, sitting in my parked car blowing my nose, dabbing at my eyes with the same soggy tissue and trying to compose myself. I lifted my sunglasses and checked my eyes in the mirror. Although they were a bit red, they didn’t look too bad. Nevertheless, when I entered the supermarket, I kept m
y sunglasses on. I didn’t care I was getting strange looks. I couldn’t trust myself not to burst into tears again, since it seemed to be happening more and more frequently.
That evening I poured myself a glass of wine and called my friend, Craig. He was a theatre nurse and the only person I ever told my confidences to.
“It’s freaking me out,” I said after revealing to him the secret I’d been carrying for the past few weeks. “I have no reason to cry.”
“That you know of,” he replied.
Craig was a tall, ginger-haired man. He had about him a mild manner. He was masculine and well-built, but there was a gentleness, a softness, about him which made everyone he met fall in love with him. Having said that, we’d only ever been friends. Best buddies.
His statement intrigued me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” he paused. “I mean there could be something from your past that’s coming out now. But whether I’m right or wrong, I think you should see a doctor about it.”
“A doctor?” I wasn’t sure how a doctor could help, or even if it was a matter for a medical professional. “What’s a doctor going to do?”
“Plenty,” said Craig. “It sounds like you might have depression.”
I laughed. I wasn’t laughing at Craig. It wasn’t even a real laugh. It was a reaction to express my discomfort.
“I haven’t got anything to be depressed about,” I said somewhat defensively. “I’m probably just tired. I’ve been working pretty hard for the exhibition.”
“Could be,” said Craig. “Doubt it though. You don’t usually cry when you’re tired. I’d get it checked out. It’s a chemical imbalance. He’ll probably put you on meds and you’ll be right in no time.”
“What are the other symptoms?” I asked. “How long does it last?”
“Whoa!” said Craig, chuckling. “I’m not a psychologist. Go and see your doctor. He’ll hook you up with someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.”
We chatted for another hour or so. Between his shift-work and me working out in my backyard studio, where all technological distractions were banned, it was sometimes difficult for us to get in touch. We always made the most of any time we managed to get with each other.
I considered his advice as I lay in bed that night. Part of me felt it was a waste of time going to the doctor to present him with such flimsy evidence. Crying was hardly a medical condition and I had no other symptoms for him to base any sort of diagnosis on. At a push I could tell him about the accompanying feelings of misery and emptiness, and the tendency towards wanting to be alone. There was the reluctance to get out of bed in the morning. Was that a symptom of anything other than laziness? I rolled over. I’d wait. That’s what I’d do. I’d wait and see what happened over the next few days. Perhaps it would go away as gradually as it had come on.
* * * *
Unfortunately, the crying continued. And worse, I was waking up in the night, unable to fall back asleep. With sleep eluding me, I’d get up and check my emails, or go out to the studio and paint for a while, or tidy up. While I occasionally cried myself to sleep, the tears never came during those periods of wakefulness, in the dead of night. Once, I woke up with the crusted evidence of tears in my eyelashes. I know I hadn’t been crying before falling asleep, which could only mean I wasn’t even safe from this demon in my dreams.
I also became aware I was becoming forgetful. I’d walk into a room and forget what I’d gone in there for, or I’d be in the middle of a sentence and forget what I wanted to say.
“I must be going senile,” I’d say with a nervous laugh as I struggled frantically to regain my train of thought.
It was a habit of mine to have a glass of wine while I was painting. I also liked to have one with dinner, especially if I had friends over, or I was dining out. But the odd glass of wine was turning into the odd bottle of wine, and when I drank, the tears would flow like they were sourced by the Nile.
Craig called me one Friday evening and invited me to a party.
“Who’s going?” I asked, not because I was a snob, but because I wanted to know I’d feel comfortable with the crowd.
Craig rattled off a list of names, some of whom I recognised and others I either didn’t know or had temporarily forgotten.
“Actually, I can’t,” I lied. “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”
“Didn’t like the guest list?” asked Craig, who I sometimes felt knew me better than I knew myself.
“No, no,” I protested. “I really am coming down with a cold.” And to further convince him, I added, “I’ve got my exhibition coming up soon and I need to be well for that.”
Craig made a noise of acknowledgement. “If you’re sure,” he said. “Don’t say I didn’t invite you.”
I forced a laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
I hung up the phone and promptly burst into tears.
He didn’t try very hard. My thoughts were bullies. They wanted to wound me. They attacked with shocking viciousness. He can’t have wanted you to go too much. Probably just felt sorry for you. Look at what time he called. He left it to the last minute so you wouldn’t have time to get ready. And where are your other friends? They’ve all abandoned you. Got sick of you. Craig’s the only real friend you’ve got, but only because he pities you.
I went to the refrigerator, to a half-empty bottle of wine. I poured myself a glass and took a great gulp. I was about to put the bottle back when I had a better idea. I drank enough from the glass to accommodate whatever was left in the bottle. I re-filled my glass, put the bottle in the rubbish bin, and returned to the lounge room.
My tears finally ran dry, although they were never far away. I was left snivelling, mid-way between one bout of crying and another. I must have looked a mess. I knew my eyes would be red-rimmed. My nose was blocked with snot. I sniffed back, but that blocked it up even more. There was probably snot on my top lip and silvery smears on my face where the tears were drying. I felt like a real prize specimen of humankind.
I picked up the phone and dialled my friend John’s number. It was busy. I hung up and then dialled my friend Jenny’s number. It rang out. I called Mark, a friend I’d known since art college. I got the answering machine, but didn’t leave a message. I slammed the phone down. More tears. Everybody’s out there having fun. The thought bullies were back. None of them bothered to call you. You’re a loser. Why would they call you? They’ve all got better friends, more interesting friends, to have fun with. You were only ever a last resort friend anyway. What do you expect?
I was pathetic. Childish and pathetic. I knew it, but I didn’t feel as though I had any control over my thoughts and feelings. They materialised and I let them have their way. I knew they were nonsense thoughts, stupid, idiotic, self-pitying thoughts, but knowing that didn’t stop them from invading my mind.
After enduring the misery for as long as I could bear, I made the decision I wasn’t going to tolerate it anymore. This creature, this demon, inhabiting my mind wasn’t me. It was an interloper. A trespasser. I wanted to be rid of it and have my old self returned.
Early the following morning, I dialled the number of my doctor and made an appointment for the forthcoming Friday. It was the earliest appointment I could get and it couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter 2
Dr. Franklin was a handsome older man. His silver hair accentuated the crystal blue of his eyes. He was athletic; the very picture of health as you’d expect from a doctor. When he smiled, his eyes literally twinkled. It was the genuine smile of a happy, contented person. I felt a flash of envy at the thought.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to one of two chairs positioned in front of his desk. “How can I help you, Daniel?”
I shifted in my chair as I examined his features. Not to admire them, but to assess whether I could trust him with what I was about to say. I’d known him for many years and I’d had no trouble explaining my problems to him before. Even when I’d contr
acted a dose of chlamydia, I’d calmly let him take swabs from the eye of my penis and from my anus. Why, then, should I be finding it so difficult to tell him what I’d gone there to tell him?
“I…” I stopped. I’d rehearsed what I wanted to say so many times I didn’t think I’d forget a single word. Now I couldn’t remember any of them.
Dr. Franklin smiled. “That’s all right. Take your time.”
“I—I think I might have depression,” I blurted out.
Dr. Franklin nodded. “Uh-huh. And why do you think that?”
I explained everything—the tears, the drinking, the sleeplessness, the forgetfulness, the nasty thoughts, the severe emotions, and the increasing lack of motivation to get out of bed.
“I’ve spent most of this week in bed,” I explained.
“That’s no good,” said Dr. Franklin.
He typed some notes into the computer.
“No, it isn’t,” I said. “I’ve got an exhibition coming up in a couple of weeks and I’ve got neither the motivation nor the energy for it. In fact, I wish I could avoid the whole thing altogether.”
Dr. Franklin continued typing. “And how long has this been going on?”
“Months,” I said, although how could I be sure? Perhaps I’d had some of the milder symptoms for even longer. Maybe even years.
He finished typing and extracted a folder of papers from a drawer in his desk.
“I’m going to ask you a set of questions,” he said. “Just answer them as best you can.”
Most of the questions addressed the symptoms I’d already told him about. Some of the questions unsettled me.
“Do you think about dying or death?”
“No.”
“Do you think about killing yourself?”
“No.”
Was that what I had to look forward to? Would my mind take me to that place? I didn’t want to think about it. I continued answering the doctor’s questions and when he’d finished I felt depleted, as though I’d taken an exam.
The Darkest Hour Page 1