Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
A Light in the Dark
Inever thought of Luke as a distraction. If anything, his presence pulled me out of a well-worn rut, thrusting me into a sea of new and exciting experiences. But with that jump out of the familiar and into the unknown comes an unexpected side effect that sends me reeling.
Mom texts me on Thursday night and cryptically says, Please take care of yourself tomorrow, without any further context, leaving me scratching my head trying to decipher her meaning.
Until I finally notice the date and understand why she’s checking in.
I'm thrust into a state of total paralysis, reality hitting me like an arrow to the chest, throwing me out of blissful ignorance and into a tailspin of despair and confusion.
How could I have been so preoccupied with Luke these last couple of months that I managed to miss something significant?
Something I never imagined I could forget.
It’s the anniversary of Dad’s death.
Historically, I’ve marked the occasion with a wave of bitter sadness and self-prescribed binge drinking to numb the painful memories.
The weeks and days leading up to it were always somber and achingly lonely, and Mom especially has always known how hard it is for me to relive what is arguably the worst moment of my life.
If she hadn’t said something, I might not have realized the day had passed for a while. For the first time in sixteen years, I would have forgotten it entirely. The truth of it opens a complicated wound in my chest.
On one hand, maybe it’s a good thing. Letting the day pass without any pomp or circumstance could be a sign of growth, proof of healing the wound I’d always believed was a permanent fixture of my identity. Like maybe I’ve finally been able to move on from my grief rather than letting it consume me.
Realistically, I find myself gripped by an overwhelming and irrational sense of guilt to think I ever could forget—as if I’ve done something wrong by overlooking the day instead of acknowledging it with the same pain and reverence that has chained me down for the last fifteen years.
For as much as I know that it’s nonsensical to feel guilty about missing the anniversary, it takes hold of me and paralyzes me anyway.
One thought surfaces amidst my confusion, sending a sharp jolt of terror through my core. Am I forgetting my dad because of my time spent with Luke?
I never imagined finding happiness with another person—the kind of happiness I didn’t know I was missing until Luke came around—could lead to this outcome.
I wasn’t prepared to lose my dad in the process, and the sudden absence of the weighted presence of that loss leaves me feeling more vulnerable and heartbroken than ever.
To be given a taste of freedom from the agony, only to have that peace cruelly ripped from my hands, feels harder to bear than when I’d been acclimated to the grief like a constant presence.
Now that I know what it’s like to exist without the pain of Dad’s absence overshadowing my life, finding myself back there is worse.
But can I really blame Luke for this? He’s become the center of my universe, his gravitational pull giving me a sense of direction, and I’ve fallen into his orbit willingly—blindly, even.
Had I known this was the result of meeting him and experiencing the last couple of months of bliss, would I have given it all up to remain faithful to Dad’s memory, even if it meant my continued misery?
Or would I have been selfish enough to choose that joy, even if it meant finding myself where I am now?
On the verge of despair, teetering over the edge into darkness.
I know my mom meant well when she texted me, but I would have been better off if I hadn’t been forced to remember it this way. And that thought hurts too.
This guilt of forgetting, of wishing I hadn’t, or that I still want to, carves its way through my bones and into my soul, tearing out every one of my self-deprecating demons from their shadows, drowning me in suffocating oblivion.
As words of shame and disgrace float around in my head, catching me off guard in my confusion, I find myself agreeing with them in a way I haven’t done in a long time.
Why, yes. I am a terrible son for forgetting this.
My dad would be disappointed in me for turning my back on him.
I should be ashamed of myself for letting Luke take over all my thoughts.
I should know I’m not allowed to be happy.
I’m supposed to be miserable. After all, it’s all I deserve.
On a normal day, my defenses would have been reinforced enough to anticipate and keep these callous thoughts at bay.
But this situation was so unexpected and tumultuous that I don’t think I could have fortified my resolve in any meaningful way to blunt the impact, even if I tried.
I’ve been flayed open, thrown into the abyss of despair, and I am both warden and inmate of this prison of my own making.
As I lay frozen in bed later that night, I feel a dense fog rolling in, filling my mind with discordant, muddled thoughts.
My body feels heavy and achy, and every effort to move is complicated and tiresome.
I’m drowning in the mist, unable to see anything clearly or logically, and there’s a strong overtone of hopelessness that I’m intimately familiar with. It’s only the beginning.
Curling up into a ball, I cling to my pillow until exhaustion finally takes over, and I fall into a dreamless sleep, hoping that the fog will be gone, and the world will be brighter the next time I open my eyes.
I manage to call into work sometime in the morning with minimal effort, but I’m useless for much else. My energy is zapped, and I can tell that I’m going to be in this for the long haul.
I spend the day in bed, drifting between fitful sleep and agonizing wakefulness, with no real comprehension of how much time has passed. I’m plagued with old recurring nightmares of my dad in various forms of horror, conjuring up images I wish I could forget.
Sometimes, he’s lying in his casket as pale and waxy as a corpse.
Other times, he’s lying on the floor of the living room, drowning in his own vomit.
With each version, he turns to me and whispers his disappointment, echoing my guilt and shame.
With every replay of my worst nightmares, I’m hollowed out, like the soul I’ve spent years healing is being scraped away with a rusty spoon.
When the pain becomes too intense, I go numb instead.
That’s when the nightmare suddenly turns gentle with a half-remembered memory of my dad, sitting with me when I was sick as a kid, humming a soft melody as he rubbed my back to soothe me to sleep.
There’s no room for the pain in the presence of that gentle, healing light.
Calm warmth washes over me until it feels like my soul can rest easy again.
Then the dream fades, instantly forgotten as long fingers brush through my hair, drawing me awake.
For half a moment, I feel like there’s no way anything could ever be wrong because I can tell Luke’s here, and if he’s here, that means everything’s okay.
But as soon as I cross the threshold from the dreamscape to wakefulness, I’m immediately thrust back into the harshness of reality when I remember the truth for what it is.
It’s a struggle to open my eyes, but when I do, I see Luke sitting beside me on the edge of the bed. I blink with confusion, disoriented. It’s either later than I thought, or the sky is dark and overcast, but I can tell Luke came straight here from work. He’s still in his work clothes.
He smiles as soon as he sees I’m awake, but the furrow in his brow betrays his worry at whatever he sees in me. If it’s anything like how I feel, it’s probably rough.
“Hi, baby,” he says softly, his saccharine voice, and the way he says baby sending a pang through my chest. “How are you feeling?”
I can’t bring myself to answer outside a shake of my head, afraid anything else will open the floodgate to tears I can sense boiling to the surface. I don’t want to cry in front of Luke. I still feel raw and on edge. Despite having slept all day, I’m also exhausted.
“What do you need right now?” Luke asks, moving his hand to my arm, rubbing it gently. His touch eases some of the ache in my muscles. “How can I help you?”
I shrug, unsure I even know what I need right now. I can’t think straight as it is.
Luke gives me an assessing look, like he’s calculating whether or not he should say something, but in the end, he seems to opt for it. “Marcus told me what day it is. About your dad. I’m sorry.”
I don’t know why hearing that sends a flare of irritation through me.
Maybe it’s the bitter sting of realizing my best friend remembered my own father’s death date when I didn’t, or it could just be the fact that I’m not in my right frame of mind, but I can feel how it clings to me.
Yet, in my poor state, I can’t seem to stop myself from lashing out at Luke in my anger instead, simply because he’s here and I’m a mess.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” I snap, my voice harsh with disuse.
Luke’s hand stills on my arm. “Why not?”
My heart aches at the twinge of hurt in his voice, and I rub my hand over my face and sigh, feeling shitty. “It’s not a good day,” I say quietly.
“I know. That’s why I came.”
I frown slightly and look away, unable to meet his piercing gaze.
“I figured something was up since you didn’t come into work today.
And when you weren’t answering my texts, I kept imagining you lying dead on the floor somewhere.
I only asked Marcus if he’d heard from you when I got really worried, and that’s when he told me about your dad and said this wasn’t uncommon for you. ”