Black

Her world was Black. Devoid of light or life. Mere existence. 

It had not always been this way--she could remember a time when the world had been bright and loud. Longing consumed her, painful, without sensation. She recalled the pleasant aroma of food wafting through restaurant windows, the sounds of laughter crashing into the crisp night air. She could still picture moonlight reflecting upon a rain-stained pavement, a soft breeze rustling through leaves. 

She could almost inhale the scent of Eric. 

Most of all, she missed their Lake. Untainted by the cruelties of life, it had always been an oasis of peace. Gentle hills and thick trees rolled up nearly to the lake’s edge. The forest canopy formed a sense of intimacy beside the Lake’s narrow pebbled beach, and hikers would often freeze, awed by the sudden expanse of crystal waters. She could imagine the sounds of life that were perpetually abuzz: birds accompanying dancing squirrels, their melodies swirling through the fresh lake air; insects of all kinds adding their trills of energy; little woodland creatures disturbing overgrown foliage. The Lake had always been her heaven on earth. 

Now it was her Heaven within the Black. 

She did not know how long she had been in this Black, this nothingness. The space was still and stale. Devoid of life or breath. She longed for something, anything, to prove she was alive. Were thoughts alone proof of existence? Could she be considered human without a form? She imagined a warm stretch after a sun-bathed nap. Her mood lifted, almost into a smile, before quickly falling once more. Would she ever again experience those simple joys of life? Would she return to the security of Eric’s arms? 

Oh, Eric. 

Just the thought of him pulled her from the Black into her Heaven. She floated in her mind through the woods. There he stood, at the forest’s edge, gazing at the water. The sun would be too bright for his baby blue eyes. She approached his back, reaching to stroke his dark wavy hair and broad shoulders. 

But her hands could not feel. 

And he was not real--a mere projection.

There were times she entered Heaven to find him walking along the shore, hands in his pockets, back hunched. An endearing grin often touched his face as he searched for nautical treasures. He loved giving her gifts. She would join him on the rocky beach, imaginary pebbles pressing into her bare feet. Sometimes she would strain to feel the brisk autumn air swirling through her hair. But there would inevitably be nothing, and sorrow at the nothingness would yank her into the Black, devoid of the Lake and devoid of Eric. 

She would hover in the Black and count. As she counted, she would long for the Hope, for that whiff of citrus that had come thrice before. She had no way of knowing how long she had been in this Black, but she did know it had been long enough to experience three blessed instances of that fruity smell. 

The first was unexpected. It was such an unthought-of change in the desolate Black that she jolted in surprise. It was her first exposure to the Hope. A glimpse into the possibility of more than vacant existence--an existence more than “I think therefore I am.” It was Hope for a world that is vivid and blinding and real. 

It was a Hope that lasted a fraction of a moment and was gone. 

That was when she started the counts. It was four-thousand-and-forty-one before the next Hope appeared. The whiff was the same as before but shorter. It was so brief she questioned if it had appeared at all. She resumed counting, hoping beyond Hope that the whiff would come sooner and last longer than the time before. But the next time did not come for a long while. She gave up counting at fifteen thousand and, in her despondence, retreated to Heaven and cried, imagining warm tears creep down her dark skin into her mouth’s corner. She could almost taste the salt. 

Looking for Eric, she saw him gathering rocks, larger than his fist. She mourned her nothingness and pulled his image to her side. With great effort, she envisioned his tender look and gentle touch wiping her tears. In his smooth baritone, he would assure her that all would be okay. 

It was not going to be okay. 

Eric was not there. 

She was not by the Lake. 

She was alone and in the Black. And she was still. 

She floated in her nothingness. She did not enter Heaven, and she did not count for Hope. She was the Black. But eventually, as if startled from a lost dream, she returned to her thoughts and the counts. She was amazed when the Hope appeared at seventy-five. She immediately entered Heaven to tell Eric. 

There he was, his back to the Lake, forehead lined and face strained. She knew that face intimately. She had spent hours through the years tracing his satin lips and creased skin as bright morning light fell across his face. His face was home. She reached up to massage the furrow from his brow and smooth the strain from his eyes. But as she moved her hand, she noticed a shift. His eyes tightened, losing their vibrance, their warmth. She found she could not recall the gaze that used to shine upon her, cherishing her. 

Her memory was fading. 

She had feared this would happen. Her Heaven was becoming distorted, beginning with the face of her lover. 

She stumbled into the Black, her mind laced with despair. There would be no end to this “existence.” Heaven was failing; Hope was nothing; the Black was reality. She ached to return to life, desperate for the crisp manifestation of Heaven. Desperate to speak with Eric. There was no other option but to continue. So she floated in the Black. Longing for life. Missing Eric. Counting for Hope. 

91. 

92. 

93. 

94. 

95. 

96. 

Citrus. 

Hope. 

Shock.

Heaven. 

Eric?

Where was he? He was not beneath the canopy of trees or beside the water. With urgency, she glided to a pile of oversized rocks on the shore and saw remnants of water leading to a trail. She imagined Eric dipping in for a swim, hurrying away to seek warmth. She shifted from Heaven with anticipation and counted again for Hope. Her despondence was rapidly fading, leaving urgency in its wake. 

77.

78.

79.

Citrus.

Excitement.

Heaven.

Blood? 

There was red beside the Lake, mingling with the grass and rocky sand. A chill shot through her mind. How could something so tainted seep into her perfect Heaven? 

She stumbled from the beach and landed in Black, frantic thoughts swirling. From where had the blood come? She feared the worse -- terror was creeping into her mind and poisoning her thoughts. Something had brought death to the eyes of her lover and the shores of her waters. She had nothing left but to count. 

13.

14.

15.

Citrus.

1.

2.

3.

4.

Citrus. 

1.

2--

The scent remained. 

It had not faded into a distant memory, but instead, the whiff grew more substantial. More potent. The vibrance of the citrus somehow shifted the Black to the Grey. And the Grey transformed, tainted by the fruit’s color, a vision of night awakening with the sun. The orange intensified into a burning red. 

Her eyes opened. 

She was in the White. 

It burned, but the initial sensation rapidly faded as the White came into focus.

She was in a room. 

The walls and ceiling were painted soft cream with one small window, a portal to a blue sky, cotton clouds, and sunshine. She inhaled and was startled to find her body respond, chest and stomach expanding and compressing with each breath. Her awareness shifted to a pressure against her stomach--the weight of hands upon a coarse blue blanket. Tubes extended from the wrists. Her wrists.

Beeping. 

The sound, steady and constant, quickened as she tuned into its presence. Stiff and slow, her head moved to follow the piercing alarm and froze. A person sat beside her bed. He was watching her--unmoving--a candle flickering on a nearby table. 

Moist eyes stared out from his kind and wrinkled face. Disheveled white hair, recently ruffled by leathery hands, rested above his lined forehead. Tears threatened her eyes, the heat a pleasant and tangible sensation, as she drank in the comforting sight of her dad.

 And then there was pain, sharp and throbbing. Wincing against the discomfort, she hesitantly reached for her head. Instead of hair, she found a tightly bound cloth. She needed answers, but words would not come, her mouth would not move. 

There was a tube. 

The ventilator pressed against her throat. It was protruding from her mouth and forcing the jaw into an open position. The pressure was awful, claustrophobic. Panic shot through her body, and she thrashed, seeking escape. She barely registered her dad’s cry, followed by the flurry of strangers. 

The Black returned. 

It was not long before she once more came to the White, eyes adjusting quicker with familiarity as their guide. 

Her father was leaning forward with anticipation, knees brushing the blanket. His elbows rested on his legs, chin upon his hands. Intensity burned through his gaze. 

“My Grace. I never thought I’d see your eyes again.”

And then he was weeping. 

His head burrowed into her stomach as he stroked her hand, body shaking with the force of his emotion. Grace reached up, hesitantly, and felt his hair. This threw her into memories, the glowing days of childhood. Her dad was always gentle, never harsh. As a little girl, she had sat on his lap and stroked his hair, head burrowed against his chest. Safe and warm. 

He was her first home. 

Her home before Eric.

“Eric?” her question escaped as the croak of a whisper.

Her father stilled instantly beneath her hand. She could hear his slow inhale as he sat upright, knuckles white against the covers. The corners of his mouth tightened, creating lines parallel to his furrowed brow. “Don’t worry about him, sweetie.”

Grace’s stomach clenched. Something about her dad’s voice was too high, forced through his tensed jaw. “What do you mean? Where is he?” Her voice refused to work properly. The words sounded through whispers and squeaks.

“You’re okay, love. That’s what matters.”

Her headache returned, excruciating. She squinted her eyes against the pain and studied her dad. He sat awkwardly, body stiff as he tried stroking her arm in a gesture of comfort. An icy chill spread down her body; she started to shake. 

Eric would walk through the door at any moment. He would brighten at the sight of her, run to her side. 

Her breath accelerated. Far away, the beeping intensified. Grace looked to the door. The room was dim, shadowed by fog. She willed him to appear. But the entrance remained empty.

And then it was black.