Nightwalker

by Ime Atakpa

  And what of my appetite, nonexistent for months on end? I’ve not eaten, nor have I seriously considered why I no longer depend upon the basic necessities of life—food, sleep, and the like—to survive. The chances are slim that my affliction should eliminate those necessities. I’ve considered it, several times I’m sure, but what stopped me from truly exploring the implications of these changes? Circumstance maybe. Or instinct, or an external force which fears my application in the visible world.

  Or denial for what I truly am. But I am alive. I see my hands and feet and hear my voice and feel the sun and can smell Mother’s cooking.

  I need only learn the method by which this barrier might be consistently breached. A technique must exist outside those few uncontrollable moments.

  In six years’ time I’ll be twenty-five but damned if I suffer this fate until then. A glint of sunlight touches the edge of my bed.

  Fear. My parents feared I might be missing on the first day of my disappearance, and on that day I managed to breach the barrier, though I hadn’t understood at the time how incredible my impact had been. The barrier fell once more upon my return from the pier, but it hadn’t been fear then that brought Mother to the door. A fleeting hope that she’d find me standing at the top of the stairs lured her outside. Somehow she sensed me and came, and ecstasy crafted her into my light.

  My mind wanders to negative emotion, insists upon it even, where the answers are clad in happier things. What makes increasingly more sense is that Mother yearned to see me once more when she opened the door; and I, returning from my voyage wished for nothing less than she did. Together, that unified will crafted a weapon to cut through the barrier. On my first homecoming, I’d been desperate to return home safely. Perhaps it is not a stretch to believe my joy at returning—and their anxiety as they awaited my return—provided enough energy to break through the barrier.

  Alas, these postulations veer only on the edge of plausibility. On my second homecoming, the storm tore at me, and I’d been so consumed by my fears, it hardly makes sense that Mother’s desperation to find me there might have overpowered my despair. And on my first, my happiness with returning home lived a short life, quickly overpowered by my discontent with their inability to see or hear me.

  Opposites everywhere. Now I only see Mother’s ecstasy against my fears or my dejection against her desire. Rather than unified experiences bridging the gap between these two planes, could it be that the union of opposites weaken it? No. I must think simpler. Feelings, be they positive or negative, are subjective things. Positive and negative values are attributions imparted by society, by me. The universe knows nothing of positives and negatives, good and evil. It knows only depth and degrees.

  Yes.

  It must be the strength of the emotions that govern their ability to transcend the barrier. This new consideration reinvigorates my search for the way. I hurry downstairs. A glimpse of Mother’s blouse flutters out of sight and the front door slams closed. Thereafter, her car revs to life and I’m left alone to ponder more.

  Time. Even that cannot interfere with my desire. Without hesitation or doubt, I pull everything inward and focus on the evening. In my mind, Father lays across the couch, snoring. A key turns in the lock, the front door swings open, and Mother squeezes between the opening. That sequence replays itself several times, then spirals out of comprehension. Familiar pain prods at me. This pain, I bear until a blurry image slides across my peripheral and onto the couch where it comes to rest. At that sight, I break the focus and time slows to its regular pace.

  Father does not sleep today. He presses his head face down against the couch.

  Moving forward, I engage myself with a study of moods, charting how each of my parents interact. As far as I can tell, Father already drank a glass or two of tonics. He buries his face in the arm of the couch, muttering to himself. Despair hangs heavy over him. The drink spurs on an ultimate longing for forgetting, a longing ultimately denied by the sobering effect of time. Tomorrow, tonight even, he’ll have become lucid enough to feel himself again and remember all the things he seeks to forget. He’ll remember me, and that remembrance shall bring with it the distress he seeks escape from.

  And perhaps, let’s see—I turn inwards and focus long enough for the sun to set before returning to time’s original flow—if the ailment ever leaves his mind. Indents in the couch in Father’s general shape tell of his recent departure. So I head upstairs to the bedroom, and halfway there, I pass Mother shaking her head. “I’ll attend to you later,” I promise, diving into her room at the sound of whimpers from within.

  There he is, choking on hard feelings, thrashing around on the king-sized mattress. The sheets tear between his arms and legs, wrap themselves all across his body such that I might mistake the man for a cocoon. He offers no words but whimpers and cries, and he presses his hands and feet against his self-imposed prison in non-committal attempts at escape.

  Despair. Agony. Disappointment.

  I needn’t guess accurately at his present emotionality, only present one of my own that surges with equal ferocity. I do not expect Mother’s return to the bedroom, not tonight. This allows me ample time to experiment.

  I watch Father half-amused, a grown man flailing about like a child in a tantrum. I understand it now, what he bears with him, though I never imagined what he bottled away might manifest itself in such a juvenile manner. It goes lengths to show the degree to which tragedy wrought its terrible effect upon us. Then I must again look to myself, the one at the center of it all, the root cause for unprecedented suffering. Heat wells up in me, and I accept it all without reservation. I channel it as best I can, never letting my attention stray from the sight of Father thrashing on his bed.

  Despair. I repeat the word to myself. I should feel despair the same as he for what I’ve allowed to occur, be it indirect or unintentional or uncontrollable. Responsibility falls upon me as the sole architect of his despair. Agony. It reaches into me next, grips onto the despair and mates with it. From the union of those sensations, the fire within stokes, sputters at the edge of my being. Just like that, I feel myself thrust forward, in partial synchronization with Father’s random swings and cries.

  “Make it go away.” He sobs into the sheets. “I don’t want anymore.” His head lifts from the tangle of sheets, a thin strand of clear mucus bridging his nose to the mattress. He looks disgustedly at it, turning away to bury his shame elsewhere, but the strand refuses to release him and wraps around the side of his face. He feels it warm against his skin and rubs his face vigorously against the sheets. “Why I—I want him. I want my son.”

  And here I am, self-proclaimed architect of this utter misery, also incapable of undoing the tragedy I have brought forth. I think this with all the conviction I can muster, and so too fill with disappointment. An icy heat rises from my core, stretches outwards as if to shred me apart.

  With all the strength in me, I concentrate on Father. I envision myself—my real, physical self—crouched at the base of the bed and calling out to him in a comforting voice. And then I call out: “I’m sorry.”

  Father sniffles. “Me too.” And he sniffles again. His thrashing slows his face enough for him to safely raise his head once more. “Oh, God. Not me too.”

  The heat leaves me in an instant, lost in that moment of revelation. My spirit lurches, replacing the heat of despair with the warmth of hope.

  He gave response. He heard. From there, his tantrum calms into a heavy-chested stillness. His body spreads across the bed, a naked star. Utilizing only a single hand, he strips himself down until he’s entirely exposed.

  He heard me.

  Father shuffles slightly, finding a comfortable position, and lets dreams take him.

  Now I’ve proven it. Throughout this ordeal, nothing has been more certain than this possibility of my reemergence. No small triumph has ever felt quite so awe-inspiring. I’ve taken the first true step on the journey home.

  Having made this small
success, I leave warm-hearted. Back downstairs, I find Mother snoring against the same arm Father’s face had been but hours ago. And her body fits so perfectly into the indentures he left in that couch, she seems to be cradled by him, even now.

  Father spirals into the comfort of degeneracy. He meanders around the house, watches the plants outside, then enjoys a fleeting solace on the couch. Neurosis provides himself company. He speaks with himself, weighing the benefits of alcoholism. This debate, though, is short-lived. He normalizes instantly upon Mother’s return.

  Sometimes they discuss local news. With increased reports of missing and dead children, they cling to the hope that mine isn’t a name to emerge amongst the deceased. Three months have passed. Not so many that all hope ought to be lost. Other times, mere trivialities comprise their conversations. But regardless where the conversation begins, everything they speak of returns to me. How much they miss me. How much they’d sacrifice for my return. When distaste for vegetables compelled me to slump over the breakfast table. How I leapt from sofa to sofa, ecstatic that every birthday brought me that much closer to freedom. How my disappearance is somehow an event directly attributable to their own incompetence as parents. I do not envy their self-loathing; after all, I am no stranger to those battles with hatred. My own ineptitude has drawn out their despair long past its welcome.

  Mother commands much less presence around the house. She often draws into herself and seldom allows Father the opportunity to engage with her. Granted, his present behavior dissuades even me from idling too long in his presence; the depth of his descent reaches further into an infinite pit with each passing day. Perhaps Mother sees this destruction too. Maybe it is for that reason that she so frequently ends conversations with him by migrating toward solitude. She may return downstairs once for supper, once more for a light snack or glass of water.

  On rare days, her visits downstairs are more frequent, and more ominous. I’ll hear her sneaking from the room, very consciously dampening each step. Several stairs on the way down inevitably creak, a challenge that hindered her only until she discovered a methodology that circumvented those troubling steps. She became nimble, and now uses that foxlike stealth to avert detection by Father who, so long as he is sober, rouses from sleep at any sound greater than his own breathing. Once downstairs, Mother’s gambit becomes a simple errand. Like a vulture on the wind, she glides about to a certain hidden chamber. Her head swivels compulsively in search of peering eyes and faces forward only when absolutely certain of the mission’s success.

  Father operates no differently, except his drinking starts much earlier; and he, having no one to hide from, makes extravagant ritual of the process of inebriation. Coasters decorate the table. Liquor, juice, and soda stand on them. He spends hours by himself, sampling the various combinations. Unbeknownst to him, I see all. I see him as he wishes not to be seen, consumed by the allure of his indulgences. I had been wrong to leave before. If I wish to understand him, and thusly build an anchor by which I might latch onto him, I must experience all that he does. Whatever deplorable character Father expresses, he cannot be its singular witness.

  I feel myself tighten watching him but persevere nonetheless, and in a few weeks’ time, I collect all the necessary data. Accounting for several variances as well as unforeseen variables, I can safely judge when Father will be home alone and when Mother is most likely to be away from Father when she returns. Each reads the other perfectly, knows the proper moments to advance or retreat. Each remains oblivious—insofar as neither gets caught in their act—to the indiscretions of the other. There’s a television upstairs in the master bedroom which Mother peruses to drown out the sounds of her lonely spouse. And there’s a note Father plays throughout the day, a sad little hum when Mother returns, that reminds him of the dangers of attempting to sneak into the hidden chamber. Sometimes he listens for the sounds of the television, and he might turn on the downstairs set as well. Then he’ll clamber about debating a course of action.

  Alas, he’ll turn off the television and come to a rest, and he’ll resign himself to soberness. Once the sun sets and weariness creeps into the house, he joins Mother upstairs to sleep.

  “Sleep, wake up,” he absentmindedly whispers. “Dream away cup. Way. Cup.” Then he disappears up the spiral case and thuds his way into the bedroom. Less than an hour passes before Mother, having bided her time all throughout the day, voyages downstairs.

  While they might successfully misdirect one another, my condition grants me vision that I might penetrate the illusions. They dedicated so much time to establishing elaborate ploys and yet all their effort cannot dispel my all-seeing eye.

  Even knowing Father is asleep, she descends the steps cautiously. I watch from outside as she disappears into the darkness of the chamber of spirits. Bottles clank against one another, she shuffles to muffle the sounds. Upstairs, Father might be stirring, or so she likely thinks. She bounds up the steps in no greater than ten seconds. She halts and rests a bottle against the table. I see her now for what she is. Her hair shoots in every direction. Her eyes have been reddened either by the television or her refusal to sleep. Her breast rises rapidly and her mouth hangs open. From the corner, her tongue emerges, folds limply over her bottom lip, and slides across.

  She stares at the bottle which she has now retreated from. Dry gin. It beckons her toward it, flaunts its temptations by merit of being there. Her battle against this adversary unfolds before me. It manifests in her subtle movements, the way she shifts backward and forward, backward and forward; and I see it in her relative stillness—save the eyes flickering across the bottle.

  “It’s too late,” she finally says and drags the bottle off the table. Relief washes over me. Mother descends the steps once more to return her tempter.

  A peculiar thing though escapes the darkness. I could swear by my very life that I hear the sound of liquid sloshing in the bottle and the distinctive echo of a reserved gulp.

  The sun rises this morning with a hint of power in its rays. They scathe the marble table where I lie in wait for the day’s events. As expected, Mother wakes first. She lumbers downstairs in a stupor of tiredness, fumbling over herself all the way. Uneven mats of hair fall along every side of her skull. She carries herself directly to the kitchen, scrounging through cabinets for the final dregs of coffee to spread in the machine. She sets it to prepare a strong brew. With that done, she’s back on the trail upstairs. Given the time between her ascent and Father’s descent, they must have met each other on their respective paths though from Father’s expression, nothing substantial passed between them. He enters the kitchen same as her—droopy-eyed and lazy—checks to see that coffee is brewing, and heads back upstairs himself. Within thirty minutes, they’ve both returned, each in their formal clothes.

  The coffee goes quickly. They refuse to speak this morning. I attribute the silence to an unseen conflict from last night. Mother appeared relatively sober on her way upstairs, but I still struggle to draw any conclusions on the authenticity of the sounds I heard from her. Should she return to bed intoxicated and stir Father from slumber, what might his reaction be? The answer to that question, I’ll never know. For now, I deliberate the current situation, the serenity of it. Each is occupied with premeditating their ritual. Such is how they endure the day, absorbed in their fantasies. But all those fantasies may soon lose their worth. The benefit of escapism, should I succeed, shall cease to exist. I can put an end to all their suffering, if only I’d work faster. If only I’d work at all. But I hear echoes of the storm and feel that this is where I belong.

  Mother leaves first, and Father ten minutes later. Until they return, only grandfather remains to keep me company.

  Father’s bookstore is a local operation, located on the outskirts of the city east from home. When his sensibilities are unclouded, his sense of responsibility drives him to be present there whenever possible. The hours of operation are brief, but they manage to sell enough antique and classic books during th
ose hours to make up for it. Lately, I don’t imagine many books have left the shelves. Since Father “quit,” by which I assume he meant only that he now takes a vacation from his full responsibilities, he only oversees the store’s opening, then returns promptly home to wallow in self-pity. I’d pity him myself except he’d not notice; besides, all my pity, like his, is reserved for myself.

  It has been far too long since I dared to reach them across the barrier. I made irrefutable progress, yet the complexity of my predicament seems only to have increased. While my mind encourages progress, my body refuses to move forward. It refuses the power granted me to escape purgatory. If only my awareness of my stasis steadied my course toward success, I’d have long since met my goal. If only the acknowledgment of my procrastination goaded me into action. Lethargic forces detract from my progress, the likes of which I can neither comprehend nor combat. In my most desperate hour, even desperation fails to move me.

  But I must move. When Father returns from work, I can no longer allow myself to sit passively by. If I love them, must I not be the force that ends our mutual suffering? It is with that resolve grafted into my heart that I project myself inwards and lose myself in time. The sound of the front door opening snaps me back into the moment.

  Grandfather chimes for twelve o’clock.

  Father commences immediately with his ritual. I await its completion at the table, watching every movement with a critical eye. Body language reveals so much more than I’d ever given it credit for. He lifts his knees higher than a casual walk mandates, suggesting an attempt at stealth despite his foreknowledge that the house is empty. The glances he takes over his shoulder reinforce the legitimacy of his fear of discovery. Regret wrestles with desire within him. Though it pains me to witness the triumph of desire, I hold to my non-intervention a while longer.