Nightwalker

by Ime Atakpa

  Hopelessness takes me by the throat.

  Tuesday evening. Father returns before Mother does, immediately throwing himself across the couch in exhaustion. As for myself, I’ve been here all day; my meandering gaze lingered on nothing in particular before his arrival. Now, at least, he might keep me company. Father turns abruptly on the couch, then back around so that the front of his face presses into the soft of the couch’s back. He mutters something to himself. I move closer.

  “Gotta be something,” he says. Veins bulge in his skin, symptomatic of the pressure he exerts against the couch. Coming to understand that it’s not exhaustion that rules over him, I’m once more taken by the pangs of self-loathing.

  Of my parents, Father has always been most predisposed to a quiet rationality. His few objections in any conversation typically hinge upon on some fundamental flaw of the argument, not a counterclaim or attestation of the rightness of his own agenda. Compliant, perhaps, may be the best description of his composure in any setting, though his complacency shines brightest during discourse with Mother. Even-tempered, wise, and accepting of even the most outrageous circumstances, he has always projected a subtle melancholy, something indicative of a hidden secret to which no other but he could be privy. I am to blame for the displacement of his gentle composure. Looking at my father now, I see someone unrecognizable, an imposter dressed in Father’s skin. It wears his clothes and scent.

  He mutters something else, then rolls onto his back. One hand cups the back of his head and the other arm lays over his eyes.

  “It’s six-thirty,” old grandfather tells me in his usual monotone. I thank him.

  A few hours pass in relative silence, grandfather the only of us willing to chime in an occasional opinion. It’s nearly eight when Mother arrives, strolling through the front door on wobbling legs, her weariness evident in the bags hanging under her eyes like heavy vines and the red vessels streaming through her eyes. I catch her gaze with despondence, knowing it shall not hold, and so it doesn’t. She glides through the house lifelessly, turning the corner into the living room where she likely suspects to find her husband.

  She doesn’t smile, she doesn’t speak. She kneels down over him to pull the arm away from his eyes. The tips of her fingers run gently against his face, tracing the lines of anguish growing outward from the edges of his twisted lips.

  He calls her name, eyes still closed.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I was just thinking about how we first met.” His lids shift up now, revealing the glossy eyes beneath; so too does his body raise up until his back rests firmly against the arm of the couch. “Do you remember?”

  “College. Romantic lit.” She turns away from him but continues to move her fingertips across his face.

  “You were—”

  “Let’s not talk about this right now, okay?” She stands now, moving only a step back from him, keeping her eyes fixed on his and pulling both hands close to her breast.

  “You were different.”

  Hearing that, Mother departs. Her footsteps sound off slowly upstairs, fully expecting Father’s voice to call them back down. But it doesn’t. And so she continues upward, separating herself from that curious word.

  Different. What could have been so different about them in their youth, and what bearing might it have on anything happening to me—to us—now? Little bearing to be certain—this, a very uncertain kind of certainty, one that begs to be analyzed and interpreted for its own sake.

  I head upstairs myself. We all need our space to ruminate on these matters, though they may be simple and arbitrary.

  Reminiscence often dispels the bleakness of tragedy. It transports us to moments when the misery of today held no sway, and we lived simpler, happier lives. For things to be different, as they were in the past, I’d give what little I have left. If it meant I could see my parents smiling together, laughing together, chastising me together, praising me together…if it meant this lingering sadness could revert to what came before it, I would love for things to be different. To live tomorrow as I lived yesterday, to see today as a long night’s haunting.

  Wednesday. My parents depart early. I hear them rush downstairs in a silence truncated only once by the sound of lips sucking lips. Then comes the sound of doors opening and closing, and after that my regular sanctuary from distraction. Another weekday. Another prolonged moment of silence during which I might concoct some elaborate plan to release me from this condition. Unmoved is my mirror against its wall, still reflecting nothing when I pass it. I think, therefore I am; therefore I must be, and yet the mirror denies me solid proof of existence, solid substance all men are molded with.

  Substance and sustenance. To exist substantially, one must be sustained. My appetites are mere longings, phantoms of true hunger. I force myself downstairs and into the pantry, and I stare for a long while at all the confections. I feel myself reel at the idea of eating. My body rejects natural urges.

  I take another look at my hands and feet and wonder if perhaps my body has degraded into a baser form, one that feeds on something other than traditional food. Or conversely, perhaps I have ascended into something that thrives without the hassle of eating.

  Foolish musings. Neither explains my parents’ inability to see me. It little matters why my appetite left me so long as I remain a specter in this house.

  Mother never read or taught any literature on the matter of invisibility, nor do I know any instance of an individual attaining invisibility that predates my own. Ah, but why would I or anyone have heard such a tale? If such a person existed and their conditions were anything like my own, it’s the natural assumption that they too failed to communicate the physicality, or lack thereof, of their condition to any observers. Perhaps they did not fully understand their capabilities whereas I have a small hint as to my limitations and potential.

  I turned over chairs and caused Father to stumble. My effect on them has been brief—and now that I consider those moments, debatably of my express doing. Father took credit for toppling the chair and attributed his stumble to the clutter in my room. How can I be certain either of those events occurred solely on account of my intervention? I cannot. Not without further proof.

  Regardless, I must believe those events suggest that something exists between where I am and where they are, something that may be bridged should one commit themselves to learn the method by which to do so. Both of those events couldn’t have been mere coincidence.

  These thoughts bring me new passion. I must begin in earnest to determine the criteria by which this invisibility gains hold as well as the complete capabilities of one afflicted by it.

  An idea seizes me shortly thereafter. The circumstances responsible for the impartation of my invisibility may very well be the same circumstances by which I might reverse it. True though it is that I retain no memory of my night walks, I don’t suppose my movements could have been much more complex than a direct journey from my home to the forest. I’d have no cause to meander. Whatever my path may have been, the day is young and this experiment of mine provides the perfect opportunity for me to escape the cold loneliness of this house.

  The allure of nature always served me well. It provided my mind the solace that saved me during my history of night walks. Out in the wilderness, the air is purer, more nurturing. You can taste the blood of the earth skirting along the sweat of plants and feel its flesh soft against your skin in sleep. People did well to construct shelters, but houses drown in the stench of artifice and empower claustrophobia. The air is corrupted by every drawn breath, untouched by the purity of the natural world.

  With that thought, I leave to feel the embrace of the outdoors. But today, the pleasantries aren’t quite as pleasant as anticipated. The wind, typically swollen with dew, has little taste. Brilliant green trees sway by the touch of that wind yet their scents barely carry. Flowers, insects, animals, none of them send signs of their presence. Even the sunlight provides insignificant warmth.

&nb
sp; My parents’ house was built on the same long strip of road as Rinaldo’s. If my night walk carried me to the edge of the forest, it holds reasonably well that I took the road west for most the way and only entered the forest near the end of my journey. I doubt I’d have entered the forest at the beginning of my walk then ended so dangerously at the roadside. This thought gives cause to wonder what exactly determines the beginning and ends of these walks. If I knew subconsciously to enter the forest, if I knew that the duration of my night walk was at its end, it stands to reason my instinct would be to seek shelter.

  I hasten my pace. Very little stands between my home and Rinaldo’s. Two, maybe three other houses, at least one of which hasn’t been inhabited since my birth. The wooden exterior long ago splintered from weathering, and with no one to care for its preservation, the whole structure slowly collapsed, consumed by clinging vines, beds of assorted flowers, and tall grass. It would seem, to anyone unfamiliar with it, that this grand house was little more than a shack left to rot in the forest. But I know better. I know that it’s lived a lengthy life and now continues a longer journey: a return to the world from which all its component parts were borne.

  The barest signifiers of civilization appear meekly along this road. I’ve become well-acquainted with these subtle landmarks. Moving past this wild land, my thoughts linger on Rinaldo, the only man, save my parents, with experience regarding my night walks. His wisdom may prove useful during this crucible of mine.

  The thought falls flat. My ordeal is best taken alone; I needn’t concern others with my personal issues. At any rate, I should focus primarily on replicating the exact route of my night walk.

  Yes. That’s true, is it not?

  Of course it is, but not for the reason I provide myself. What a delightfully poor ruse. I cannot deceive myself in this. Authentically replicating my travels concerns me least of all. The prospect of being received at his lodge by eyes searching in vain for a phantom visitor terminates my desire to seek his comforts. But if I follow the true path, his lodge won’t be far off. I stop where I am. If I continue along this course, can I muster the strength to keep away from his lodge? The question, it occurs to me, needs no answer, for all my volition is born by fear’s decree. I won’t have strength enough to resist, nor do I have the naiveté to allow myself that choice in good faith.

  I move swiftly in the opposite direction. In a moment of self-aware self-deception, I find myself turning over the circumstances in my head. My entire purpose for leaving home had been to follow the road to the place I awakened, but rather than deviate from this course on account of fear, I shirk the experiment for my own benefit. I’ve not had a moment of peace since the onset on this invisibility, and perhaps my new destination might grant me some comfort, the likes of which even Rinaldo cannot provide.

  Casting my fears aside I proceed along the route to my favorite haunt. It lies in the opposite direction from Rinaldo’s lodge. Several houses east from my own, a dirt walkway cuts away from the paved road into the forest. A jumble of bushes and low-hanging branches obscures the path which, like most else along this road, fell into disuse long ago.

  At the intersection between pavement and gravel, I steer toward the discreet opening. Squeezing through the tangles is much simpler than I remember, much to my appreciation. On the other side of the path’s entrance, the arms of trees wrestle each other overhead, constructing a natural canopy. The pathway itself has succumbed to disuse. Much of the overgrowth stretches onto the path. On account of this, determining where the path turns becomes an effort in itself. Every so often, branching paths emerge and intersect with the rightful path, and I must consult hazy memories for the proper direction.

  I first learned of this walkway shortly after my grandmother died. Mother had been so distraught over the loss, she’d hardly spoken a word to anyone, myself included. The few times she spoke, she did so to convince me to accompany her on what she called “just a short stroll,” much contrary to the length of our hike. At least half a mile of road stretches between each house, and I considered that distance alone lengthy. From the beginning of the dirt path to its end on the other side of the forest, I was in for no short stroll. As far as I remember, I never complained, for there was a pleasure in knowing my company alleviated Mother’s pain.

  At any rate, I appreciated the exercise and nature’s allure. So in spite of the great distance, I managed well. Mother lectured me about landmarks and how to easily reverse directions to return home after a trip through unfamiliar territory. The methodical nature of navigation soothed the emotional turmoil of her loss. And at the end of it all, she’d take the pier as her reward.

  I remember visiting several times after that, never as a celebratory trip. Once had been after Father became deathly ill and she feared he’d not be with us much longer. We went again when she lost her old job. We came once more the day after I first awakened to my night walks and talked a long while regarding our cursed blood.

  At the time, I believed her to have brought me here on account of joy for having found me. Revisiting that moment now, it’s evident that she mourned all the awakenings I was to have, the sleepless nights wondering if the sun would see me next through my bedroom window or in the lawless wilds. And within that fear lurked the concern that some animal would devour me in the night as I lay paralytic in the grass of a clearing. Or the worry that my night walk would lead me out into the road where a tired or drunk—perfectly lucid, even—driver would plow their vehicle headlong into me.

  Back then, I couldn’t have imagined the terrors that ran through her head that day. Only years later at the dawn of my own suffering do I appreciate her sentiment. All these years, I aged bereft of experience. But for all my aging, I did not grow, not until I learned firsthand what she had always known. All at once, nuggets of wisdom gather into a dense ingot. If I could, I’d mold that ingot into newfound strength. I’d carve it into a shield to protect against the travesties of this curse and a sword to cut away at my parents’ unyielding concern. Alas, even that strength would do me little good now. I regret that only by catastrophe was my growth necessitated.

  I come to a final tuft of leafy branches and squeeze through them. From here, the forest quickly thins out into sparsely populated clumps of minor trees and shrubs. So too does the dirt beneath me shift, turning from dark brown soil to a speckled mixture of soil and sand until, at the very edge of the forest, soil surrenders completely to sand. The dark green canopy has by now dissolved into hues of pink and bright red. In the distance, the sun sits halfway between its peak and the horizon.

  It couldn’t have been long past noon when I departed, and already the day is lost. Not quite the backdrop I’d hoped for, but perhaps nightfall shall treat me better than daylight. It is, after all, the cover of darkness that breathes life into my night walks.

  Even from the edge, I can see the pier jutting into the ocean a mile away. It straddles the surface of the water for many yards before dipping its head into the sun-painted surface. Seeing it so far away stirs a shred of regret in my mind. I’m weary of all the traveling I’ve endured lately. My futile trek in the forest, my journey home, the incessant pacing I’ve committed myself to since returning, and now this. Granted, I’ve yet to fatigue or sweat through all this walking. As an exercise in passing time (strange, now that invisibility reduces my life to a mere existence, time shuffles on with the leisure of an infant child; and yet I often find myself swimming through it with ease, passing from day to day without so much as a thought), I commit myself to focusing wholly on the ground beneath me.

  Initially, the sand lays a thin veil over underlying dirt, but down into the greater beach, the soil vanishes completely beneath the sand. Only the occasional splintered branch serves to remind of the forest behind me. Sand swallows large stones, acorns, and splintered wood. No more than ten yards from the forest’s end, they’ve all but disappeared. I can catch traces of them if I pay close attention to the designs carved into the surface of the san
d, apparent signs that something recently sank below.

  And then I consider all the debris long-since buried, the artifacts whose presences cannot be determined by the surface of the sand, or by any measure at all. I stand atop a great history of branches and stones, completely encompassed by the sand. If I stand still for long enough, time shall swallow me as well, bury me under the weight of history.

  The sands become thicker and less strewn with stray branches the farther from the forest I venture, and soon enough I’m far enough along that the darkness of impending night has shrouded the forest from sight. I continue toward my destination.

  Waves whip against the pier in perfect rhythm, their vicious crests spilling onto the wood. That great force evokes the memory of the gales that struck the house the night I watched over my parents.

  How strange it was that nature should fight so violently against me. And even now, as I approach the pier, the waves crash down with growing strength. Its crests stretch toward me. A deep, layered history permeates the air and seeps into the waves. I can feel it, like an instinct, telling me this is where I belong, tempting me with foreign thoughts. Memories?

  I remember my parents discussing me sitting on the edge of this very pier, both my feet in the water, and I can’t help but to wonder how viciously the waves lapped at me then. Did they reach to pull me overboard or graze me gently? What chance would I have stood against the will of the waves?

  I move onto the pier and breathe in the oceanic air. Everything save this moment fades away. Cloudy faces and intimate thoughts wash over me. It strikes me that these may be memories from my youth. Then I question what use they’d be to me now, returning here of all places. Pictures of tents and thick woods clutter the pages of my memory’s scrapbook. Mother rarely took me here; I remember each moment and none coincides with these images passing through my mind. But now I think of her sister, my aunt who met a death by drowning, and I can almost taste the saltwater stinging my nose. Even so, I rest assured that these sensations aren’t long-forgotten memories.