And in sleep, in slumber.

For posterity. Hah!

I am going to write because I want to. I will write for no one else but me, and if you're going to say, why publish on Vocal? Well, why not? Perhaps someone will read it, maybe only my mother will. Although I doubt it very much. She doesn't quite get my humour - and suffice it today, she thinks me a cynic. Anyhow, let's write. If only to release the bursting cells of emotion within me - about to explode simultaneously - if not unburdened immediately. You'd find me a puddle - oozing, unmoving - dead. So, let's write.

I had a visitor last night. In my dreams. As it has been every single night for the last four months. Since September 5th, 2020 to be precise. Oh, he's dead, by the way, my visitor. You ought to know before proceeding to read this, uh ... tale.

My story started on the night of September 5th. He's been dead a day. Where he lived, it was the day after, the 6th, but where I live thousands of miles away, it was still the 5th. My mother told me of the grim news and blurted it out - like it was just a fact. Actually, let's rephrase, she announced it to us with a mixture of sadness and surprise. Perhaps I thought she blurted it out as just a fact because it was such a contradiction to how I felt. Inside, my heart beat so rapidly I thought it was about to burst out of my chest. I started to wail like those older ladies paid to cry at funerals. I began to wail louder and louder, but no sound could be heard. Then I felt the presence of Lady Death as she gripped my heart and sank her hideously sharp fingers through its walls. With no ounce of mercy. And I wailed some more. But no one could hear, for no sound was heard.

I hadn't slept more than a few hours since then, except for that one night when he gave me a break - December 21st, 2020. Perhaps he decided to visit someone else that night, to provide me with a respite from the cruelty of his presence that brought me immeasurable pain. I am exhausted.

On the night of September 10th, 2020 - as my beautiful daughter slept peacefully beside me, the first drop of tears flowed. Through the rhythmic vibration of her little snores, I tried my best to stifle the tears. I failed.

It went on like this night after night. I would have to get up and run to the bathroom to unclog my senses and wash my face trying in vain to erase the signs of my grief. I scolded the woman in the mirror. I desperately told her to stop. She wouldn't listen, couldn't listen, and so I would give up. I would go back to bed, lie on my tear-soaked pillow - and the tears would flow again. All night, I repeated the exercise of crying, running to the bathroom, scolding the woman in the mirror staring back. Once or twice, I swear I thought she started to laugh in response. It was a laugh filled with angst and pity. An immeasurable amount of pity. And so it went night after night until God would take mercy and send me to sleep.

And in sleep, in slumber - he would come.