ONE
Many people are afraid of darkness.
To them darkness creates an instant fear in their minds, but what people don’t realize is that that fear is only a figment of their imagination. If you’re afraid of darkness, it’s because you’re terrified of what hides within it.
Monsters.
Demons.
The Boogie Man. Whatever it is you’re afraid of, it’s because you’ve allowed yourself to become afraid of that dark unknown.
To me, the darkness is my life. I dwell in it. Bask in it.
I enjoy the coolness. The quiet. The peace. Staring into nothingness. I don’t mind darkness. I’m not afraid of it either. In fact, I love it because it hides my appearance and who I really am.
I spent most of my childhood cloaked in shadows, which is why it brings me comfort. In the pitch black, I can hide my face, my eyes, my guilt. No one can see me. No one can read my face and tell how I’m feeling.
It’s a pleasure honestly.
And it’s why John and I are sitting in this room in the dark. I’m staring up at the blank ceiling and he’s watching the rain slide down the windowpane across from him as if it’s some wet, constantly altering masterpiece.
He’s quiet. Too quiet.
I shouldn’t feel so relieved about his silence but the truth is I don’t want to talk right now. The rain, along with the steady beeping of the monitor beside me, have become sounds of comfort—noises my hollow mind can drown in.
John’s head turns as I sigh.
“You okay?” he asks, leaning forward. Though it is dark, there is a sliver of moonlight pouring in through the window, allowing me to see him. The dark circles around his blue eyes causes a tug around my heart.
My lip twitches as I nod for him.
He places a hand on my arm. His touch is always warm. Comforting. I try to smile, but my cracked lips prevent a full one.
“You’ve been quiet today,” John murmurs, running his fingers down my arm. He lifts my hand in his and kisses the back of it, his shimmering blue eyes finding mine. They flash from the lights filtering in through the window. “You should try and sleep.”
I slowly pull my hand away. “You know you don’t have to keep telling me to sleep, John,” I sigh.
“I’m just worried about you, Shannon. I have every reason to be worried.” And he’s still upset about the argument we had earlier over me not wanting to be sedated again because I felt just an inkling of pain. I was fine. I swear I was. He was just being his usual overbearing self.
I mumble something beneath my breath and hear him shift in his chair.
“What?” he asks.
I don’t respond.
My silence clearly bothers him, and, seconds later, I hear the legs of his chair scrape across the linoleum and the lights flicker on above me. I shield my eyes, feeling like a vampire caught in the sun.
“John! Seriously?”
“What did you say?” he asks, ignoring my slight overreaction to the light.
“Nothing,” I mumble, dropping my hands.
“You did say something. Would you be kind enough to repeat it?” John stands tall, chin high, his chestnut hair floppy and messy around his ears and forehead.
I remember the first time I saw my husband. I was struck by his beauty. He’s so handsome but so serious all the time. He’s got a chiseled face, strong with sharp angles. His lips are full and supple, and with a body like his, it’s as if he were built to be a god.
At one point I loved everything about John and all his seriousness because, to me, seriousness meant dedication and stability, but after I was diagnosed, that seriousness slowly began to annoy me. I know, I know. I’m a horrible wife for thinking that.
I blow a breath. “John, let’s just forget it, okay? I really don’t want to waste my energy arguing right now.” I adjust the tubes running from my nostrils.
He sighs. “Repeat yourself, please.”
“Why? What do you think I said?”
“I don’t know!” he snaps, and I flinch. “That’s why I’m asking you, Shannon!”
Our eyes lock, the hostility like static in the air. We go through this so much—too much, in fact. I’m starting to get sick of the same old thing, arguing over my health, something he wishes he could control. He’s the kind of man who wants to be in control of everything in his life but with my situation, it can’t be that way and he knows it, and that makes him angry sometimes. Irritable.
“You need to stop kidding yourself. Stop playing so many games when it comes to your health, Shannon,” he snaps.
Anger strikes me, and before I can think about it, I spit out the words I was once afraid of him hearing. “Fine. You want to know what I said? I said I want you to stop worrying about me, John! I don’t need you to worry so much about every little thing, okay? Sitting here like this is hard enough. I want you to move on before it’s too late! Forget about me and this fucking hospital already and just prepare yourself for what’s next. We both know I’m not going anywhere—well, actually, no. I take that back. If I do go anywhere, it will be because my dead body is carried out of this room and buried six feet underground. You’ll get to go home, and I’ll be gone.”