It’s all shadows now.
Sinking. Velvet suffocation.
Darkness fills in like ink. Shadows twist. Are they sparks or are they bubbles? Do they rise or do they burst? Don’t know. Ego sorts through the debris and finds the drawers of memory. Ego rearranges and sifts. Robust memory responds. There was icy water, then pain. Now bright lights. Halos of concerned faces hover. Ego assumes personality. Personality discovers some of its baggage.
Hurt. Dying. Dead.
But stuff still moves inside his head. Drowned in the dark, he grows gills and discovers he can breathe the black. Somewhere above, on the surface, murky storms of human weather barge around; garbled people in white coats who move, poke, talk, shine lights.
Better to avoid It. Them. Up there’s where the pain lives. Better to roll over and dive and meander along the bands of shadow where the lacy patterns of light sway like kelp.
Enchantment is not out of the question.
Everything else sinks but life is a stubborn bubble that persists in rising to the glow that is brighter and brighter and like-hey-
See. .
* * *
A kind of seeing. Dream-seeing. A shadow man and shadow woman in fuzzy outline, filled with black. They stand, facing each other, and the man slouches forward heavily. He holds one palm up and with the finger of his other hand, he strikes the palm, sadly counting items off a list.
The woman bows her head and pulls a hand through her hair. Her other hand presses into her chest over her heart.
Still not clear, like peering through screens, veils, mist. Just shapes. Tense, worried shapes. And some precocious part of his mind is piping up that this is how Homer described shades in hell.
A bell rings and they walk away. Now there’s nothing to look at but a shadow couch, a fireplace to the left, banks of windows, and beyond the windows a spidery lacework of barren branches under a slab of veined marble sky. Hello?
The woman returns and stands before the windows. She raises scissors and she could be a figure from Sophocles the way she methodically saws at her long dark hair. Clumps fall to the floor and on her shoulders until all she has left is a plucky cap the color of wine. With a broom, she sweeps the shorn hair into a dustpan. Then she is gone.
His eyes can move but they steer out of control; they roll, tipsy, and hit the curb of his vision and rotate back. His shoulders heave, the muscles of his neck jerk. He hits restraints. Straps maybe. Nothing else moves.
Nothing moves.
Paralyzed?
. .
Maybe just broken. Say broken.
Okay. Fix broken later.
. .
No color. Everything grainy, gray on gray-ashes after fire. The air itself is a mist of blowing soot. Hell again, a dream without sound. At the bottom of the dream two bare feet stick out from a sheet. They sprawl on the edge of a mattress covered with a crinkly cover. The kind of rubbery thing that goes on a baby bed to protect it from getting wet. The feet aren’t attached. They are just more shadow furniture, like the couch.
Feet. Not feet.
Here. Not here.
The situation calls for discipline. A point of origin.
Ego. I.
Me.
Hank.
. .
From the angle of his vision he cannot find the rest of himself.
He tries real hard. He can feel his chest rise and fall as his lungs fill and empty, and he can hear the drumbeat of his heart. He can see arms, inert; just lying there. He sees the coral snake tattoo on his wrist from that night in Columbus, Georgia, after he got his jump wings.
So. You are stuck.
Just asleep. Just asleep. Stay calm.
Wake up. Wake Up. WAKE UP!
. .
The bubbles lied. No up, no light. Still stuck in between. Not awake, not asleep. Just entombed here inside this living suit of a body.
And he senses a wry flutter behind his eyes. A. .
Smile. Because isn’t everyone trapped inside themselves?
Okay, be serious.
Stuff is connecting up. His mind scurries for a fix. You cannot move today. One day at a time.
But his imagination and intelligence are running more in step now-more like him-and they are running scared because they’ve already made the leap. What has no body and can see? Five-letter word starts with G.
No longer merely a camera/recorder, the voice inside is his voice now and can still laugh at a joke.
Hey man, it’s like you’re dead.
And then. What if you are dead?
How would you know? You’ve never been dead before.
C’mon cut the Buddhist shit, this is serious.
What’s that? Tunnels of sound. Drains unclogging. Whoosh.
“Jesus.”
Jesus. Someone said “Jesus.” An echo like. .
Wait a minute here.
Oh, shit, oh, shit, what if Aunt Louise is right and Jesus is waiting at the end of the long, dark tunnel to pull me over and stick the God flashlight in my face and check the expiration on my spiritual ID-not the historical Jesus who was some right-on, squat, big-nosed, splay-toed, swarthy rabbi who was bucking the system. No, it’s the Anglo-Saxon, blue-eyed Baptist Methodist Catholic Lutheran Episcopalian Presbyterian Jesus, the only man in ’50’s America allowed to have long hair, and Eisenhower is God and heaven is really a white-church picnic in Mississippi.
“So when they nailed Jesus to the cross. .”
Oh, shit, oh, God. Somebody was talking out there, not in here. No bullshit. Shadows talking out in shadow land. Two shadows talking close.
“No. No. Take my word, it just wouldn’t work that way.”
“But that’s how they show it in this painting. And this book costs. . look at this, a hundred and forty-five bucks.”
“That painting’s from some religious Flemish fanatic’s imagination three hundred years ago. Absolutely incorrect. It would never happen. Spikes through the palm would not support the weight of the human body. They’d tear right out.”
“Hmmmmm,” shadow number two said. “You’re saying they just made it up.”
“I don’t know about that. Crucifixion was practiced by the Romans as a form of state execution. And the Romans were, above all else, engineers. They were always very practical in their planning.”
“So how would they have nailed him up, you know, live?”
“Live?”
“Like, in real life.”
Real life. Real life. Bodies that move. Hey. I’m here. I’m-listening.
“Probably they just used rope and strung them up. It would have been more efficient and cheaper. What killed them was exposure, starvation, and the hanging, the cramping of the shoulder and chest muscles disabled the lungs until the condemned person slowly asphyxiates.”
“Like they couldn’t breathe anymore.”
I can breathe. I can breathe.
“That’s right.”
“But if they did nail them up what would be the ideal way to do it? Give me your best-case scenario.”
“There’s an anatomy book on the reference shelf over there. Go get it.”
Get it, get it. I’m here. Can’t really see them yet. Like behind Venetian blinds. Come out, come out.
“Okay, here are the bones of the forearm and hand. The logical place to pin the arm is through a foramen.”
“Forearm, right.”
“For-a-men.”
“Say what?”
“A natural opening in the body. And on Hank, that would be here, see?”
Oh, God. Touching. Touching me.
“At the terminus of the radius and ulna bones. Above the wrist. See this opening in the tendon? Called the interossesous membrane.”
“You mean, ah, here?”
I can feel that! I can feel that. They’re touching my left wrist. Poking it. I can feel it and I can breathe and I can hear.
“Right here, there’s a natural opening between the bones.”
“Just give it the old kabosh right there and nobody’s going anywhere, right?”
“Not unless they tear through a lot of nerves and soft tissue, and especially not if the nail has a head on it.”
. .
Gone. They’re gone. Come back.
I’m here.
Me, Hank.
Come back.