Chaos and Clarity

I woke up, nearly an hour before my alarm, to rays of sunlight warming my face. That should have been my first sign that today was not going to be like every other day. The overwhelming scent of lavender and chamomile strangled me, pulling me out of my groggy, half-awake state. Our house usually smelt like vinegar and fabric softener because of my husband’s constant cleaning. Though whatever was happening in the kitchen seemed pleasant, it all felt very out of place.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to force them open, but the burning sensation made me settle for squinting. The incessant pounding behind my eyes was making it hard to see straight. I strained as I looked at the empty space in my bed. Dylan should be here with me. But it looked like he hadn’t slept there at all last night. I tried to remember if he told me he was going to be out late last night or get up early this morning, but I couldn’t seem to recall anything from yesterday. I tried to shrug it off, figured we probably got into a fight, and that I’d talk to him sometime today.

After two decades of marriage, it seemed like all we did was fight these days. I stayed out too late and drank too much, and he was too stubborn to admit he was ever wrong and too consumed with social media to pay any attention to me. But, I couldn’t blame us for growing a part. No one could.

When we started dating, no one knew we were gay. Hell, I didn’t even know I was gay. But, we decided to come out to everyone we knew after a few months. I did it for him. I convinced myself that he would be the last man I ever dated and the only man I would ever marry. Our entire existence was intricately woven into and within the other one and I think that’s what has kept us together for so long. If it wasn’t for Dylan, I would likely be married to some woman, living the life my parents had envisioned for me. And, to some degree, knowing that keeps me with him. I don’t want to give any one the satisfaction of knowing I made a mistake. I didn’t want to admit that to myself either. A part of me has and will always love Dylan, but we haven’t been in love with each other in a long time. It was becoming painfully obvious that we may never be in love with each other again.

I swung my legs out of bed, and when they landed on the ground, it sent a pain up my spine that spread throughout my body like a wildfire. Every part of me shuddered in agony. I felt like I had been hit by a mack truck then ran over again while I laid helplessly on the hot asphalt. I struggled to stand, moaning with every movement. I shuffled to the bedroom door and started down the hallway towards the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under the weight of each step. I felt like a stranger in my own home.

I pulled out one of the barstools and sat at the counter, listening to an unfamiliar woman hum as she went between flipping pancakes and pouring tea into matching 'his' and 'hers' coffee mugs. I must be dreaming.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

She walked around the kitchen island and kissed me on my lips. Well, I guess this isn’t a dream. I wanted to ask her who the fuck she was and what the fuck I was doing here, but when I opened my mouth to speak, the words just wouldn’t come out. She made her way back to the sizzling pan.

”I’m having dinner with a few of the firm’s partners and potential clients tonight, so I’ll be home late.”

I don’t know if it was my silence or the dumbfounded look on my face, but when I didn’t respond, she turned her attention from the skillet back to me, cocked her head to the side, and lifted a perfectly shaped blonde eyebrow.

“Babe, I told you that this dinner was coming up, so you shouldn’t be surprised.”

Oh, babe. That isn’t what I am surprised about.

The screeching of the smoke detector pulled her focus away from me. She grabbed the handle of the pan with one hand, opened the window at the other end of the kitchen with her other hand, and held the pan outside, laughing at herself the entire time. Her laugh was something between a witches’ cackle and a maniacal evil genius. It was infectious: I couldn’t help but laugh with her. She seemed easy going and sweet and even though I was, in some version of this life, married to a man, I could see that she was beautiful.

She was clearly someone who put tremendous effort into her physical appearance, making sure not a single strand of blonde hair was out of place. Her dress was pressed, erasing the sign of any wrinkles, and I assumed Botox was how she solved that same problem on her face.

For just a brief moment, I felt a warmth inside of me that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Happiness, maybe? But just as quickly as it came, it was gone, replaced by a bone-shivering coldness. The world around me disappeared from view. I was consumed by blackness, then a seething pain pulsed through me. My stomach churned as images flashed behind my eyes.

I saw strangers sitting and standing around me, but no one was sitting next to me. We were moving like we were on a train or bus or subway or something. I looked at the seat next to me, realizing something was on it, but I couldn’t quite make out what it was. The image was too fuzzy. I tried to focus on it, thinking maybe this could give me a clue as to what the fuck was going on.

“What just happened?”

I looked up at my stranger wife, seeing the shock and fear that filled her ocean blue eyes. She was scared for me. She loved me. But how can someone I don’t know love me this deeply?

“I’ve felt off all morning. I can’t remember anything from yesterday and my whole body hurts.”

“We spent yesterday at the zoo with my sister and her kids. Then we came home and binged TV shows. You seemed fine yesterday.”

How the fuck do I have an entire life that I can’t remember with some woman that I don’t even know?

She helped me to my feet, walked me to the couch, and draped a blanket across my lap. I caught a look at myself in the mirror that hung on the wall in the living room. I looked about one hundred times worse than I felt. My hair was disheveled and my eyes were sunken in and bloodshot. I looked like I hadn’t slept in weeks.

“I think I’m going to call out today. I don’t feel comfortable leaving you like this.”

I need you to leave so I can figure out what is going on with me!

I went to open my mouth to respond but all-over body pain rendered me motionless again. I fell back into the sudden blackness. I saw the same scene and knew I needed to focus harder if I was going to get any answers.

The screeching of metal on metal told me that I was on a train. I looked at the item next to me and channeled all of my energy to bring it in to focus. After a few moments, I could make out this thing. It was a package. A small box, the size of a tablet, wrapped in brown paper. The look on peoples' faces told me not to touch it. They were all terrified of it, but I couldn’t understand what was so threatening about this box. I looked at the woman sitting across the aisle from me. She looked distraught. She was on the phone, saying something. I strained, trying to hear her but her words were drowned out by the sounds of people sobbing and screaming. I leaned towards her, trying to hear anything, but was distracted by a sound coming from the box. It was…ticking.

I woke up to my stranger wife holding my hands. What is happening to me? We were both thinking it, but neither of us dared say it out loud. Then, the doorbell rang. I had just enough strength to turn my head towards the door, but she went to answer it. When the door swung open, my jaw dropped to the ground.

The man standing in front of her was my husband. My Dylan. He was wearing a USPS uniform, which is strange since he is an elementary school teacher, but this was probably the least strange thing that had happened so far today. It took all of the energy that I had left, and a little bit more, to get to my feet. I stumbled to the door and clumsily fell into him. I pressed my nose into his neck, breathing him in. He smelt like home.

I could feel his body tense under the weight of my own and when he didn’t hug me back, I peeled myself away from him. I searched his eyes, hoping to see love or at the very least, an indication that he knew who the fuck I was. But he just stared blankly back at me. This was Dylan, but in whatever twisted universe we were living in, he wasn’t my Dylan.

He reached into his blue satchel and pulled out a package. I immediately broke into a cold sweat, overcome by the sudden need to vomit. I recognized it. It was the same one I kept seeing in my mind. I reached for it. When I grabbed it, everything around me went silent and dark.

I was on the train, again, and this time it was apparent what was happening around me. The ticking was a bomb. I was sitting next to a bomb. Everyone around me was calling their people and saying goodbye. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that not a single one of us was going to make it off of this train alive.

I wanted to get as far away from the package as I could, but knew I couldn’t risk bumping it or knocking it over. Sitting there, all I wanted to do was call Dylan, but I couldn’t find my phone anywhere. I must have left it at home when I stormed out this morning. Dylan and I had a knock-down drag-out fight over something that I couldn't even remember. It was all so insignificant now. I needed to call him. To say I was sorry. To tell him that I loved him. To tell him that I wasn’t done fighting for us, for this. He needed to know that he was and is my entire world.

But I didn’t get that chance. The ticking sped up until it was the only thing I could hear. Then there was a loud bang. The smell of fire and the sound of blood-curdling screams filled my nose and ears.

“Honey?”

I woke up, drenched in sweat, to Dylan shaking me by my shoulders.

I’m not sure if whatever just happened was some sort of memory or a nightmare or premonition, but I don't think that even mattered now. All that mattered in this moment and moving forward was getting back to the person I used to be. To getting back to the love that started this all. To getting back to us.