“…if I should die before I wake,” you whisper, as the rain pummels and the wind blows cold through the half-open window across from the bed.
***
A battered schooner…a raging storm…
Torn sails flap above the choppy brine, roll deliriously through the swelling spray. Angry gulls circle. You’re on deck, watching their pirouettes, their cries like metal on a rain-washed street.
You grab the wheel, salt-sting in your face as the schooner leaps. You’re soaked with sea and sweat.
Lightning explodes, the ocean dances with unearthly light.
***
The shade snaps and, if awake, you’d see, flickering in the storm like images from a Depression-era newsreel: A service station sans pumps and a row of yellowing triple-deckers, their windows cracked in patterns like maps leading nowhere. A trash can clangs down a mud-splashed alley.
***
Two hands surface, a head. More hands, heads. An army rises from the shimmering sea.
The wind hisses. You shiver, face chapped raw.
***
Numbers flicker on the clock/radio next to the bed. 6:59 changes to 7:00. The AM/FM band springs to life with an eerie glow. “It’s 7:05 at WZZZ. We’ve got a dismal day ahead. Rain, heavy at times, and the same tomorrow…”
The shade rattles as you lumber from bed and press your face against the glass. Down in the yard, you see: a twisted tricycle sinking in a sea of muck. Across the street, the triple-deckers sway.
The model ship on the desk was a gift from your dad. He’s been gone a long time.
As your mother makes breakfast, the rain-sounds fuse with the sizzle of sausages. A too-bright fixture blazes and moans, struggling with a bulb it was never designed to hold. The light flickers, fades, but stays on.
You’re 35 years old. Your mother’s been gone a long time, too.
“Eat up, or you’ll be late for school.”
You blink, and you’re 36.
***
Bury your head against the mast as your cheek slips and slides–
***
“Rain today, the same tomorrow…”
37.
Rain spills onto the carpet. The lights flare, return less bright.
You’re 38 years old.
The. Same. Tomorrow.
***
The deck is slick and the boat rises, crashes back down, but the men and women who’ve risen from the sea don’t stumble, don’t lose their balance–
***
The rain beats against the scraggy bushes beside the driveway. Drums of thunder battle to be heard above the engine’s soggy drone. For a moment, you can’t remember where you wanted to go.
You blink, 39.
The storm worsens. The car radio’s just static.
The same tomorrow.
***
Hands reach out and you’re powerless to fight. Over the side–
***
You race the black coupe down rain-streaked roads. The tires screech as you speed into a turn…
***
You’re held aloft by clutching hands–
***
40 years old.
The Same Tomorrow.
***
They drag you down–
***
The truck bears down, brakes screaming like an ice-dagger across your rearview.
You imagine that your expression wouldn’t change. Not at the moment of impact, or as you tumbled over the hood…
The horn would drone on like a thing possessed, rain on your face, washes away the blood…
***
The sea fills your eyes, ears, nostrils–
***
You’re behind the wheel, with the truck screeching past.
You see: Triple-deckers, pelted by rain, windows cracked like maps. Empty storefronts mottled with mold. A different service station, sans pumps, the rusted hulk of an ancient Cadillac Seville sinking in a sea of slime.
Blink, 41. Driving to a job you lost six months ago, down streets that haven’t changed.
***
The ship follows you down.
***
At age 9, during a storm, you fell through the skin of a barely-frozen pond and nearly drown. Weeks passed before you woke up. Sometimes it feels like you never came ’round, like you’ve spent the years suspended, unborn…
You recall hands, reaching, straining…
Now, when you revisit that moment, the hands appear from below, and instead of hauling you up, they’re dragging you down.
About the author:
David Gianatasio is the author of Mind Games (Word Riot Press)
