The Woman, The Room
by Michael Thomas-Knight
I’m writing to you about a place I had visited
only once before and only for a brief moment since
I’ve been ill. Cancer is a corrupting disease. It’s
destroying my bones and I am afforded only slivers of timed relief to write between doses of pain
medication. The place I write about is the epitome
of gloom, but it’s soft and peaceful, a welcome invite from the pain and discomfort of my condition.
It’s a serene slumber few can imagine, one with
no dreams, no thought, and no interaction of any
kind.
I had not entered through a doorway or a
tunnel; the room just came into being. No light
source pervaded, but I could see subtle shapes and
veiled detail. A room lay before me, adorned with
bulky hard-wood furniture, each garnished with
Victorian ornamentation. Large chairs loomed like
monolithic towers and a dining table stretched like
a black plateau into opaque infinity. Crystal chandeliers and baritone table lamps adorned ceilings
and shadowed corners, mute of light or reflective
properties. I sensed souls or beings, weak signals of
undercurrent in the halls and rooms. The thought
occurred to me that the undercurrent of these entities emanated from the pieces of furniture. Was
that possible? Was there a life force in these inanimate objects? I concluded that if I chose to stay
here, I too would become rigid ornamentation
decorating these sepulchral halls. It was not an
unwelcome concept, to become an inanimate item,
strength in design and function, yet void of the
painful realities of the illness engulfing my body.
As this solemn desire enticed me, a woman
appeared. She had a dark green complexion, rotted
pursed lips, emaciated nose and no eyes. She communed with the part of me that needed privy to
her domain. She was the end of hope and the state
of acceptance. She didn’t call to me; she just waited
with the patience of a thousand saints for me to accept this new state. My decision to let go came and
I felt the tethers to ideas, functions, and memories
of my old world wane, then slip away from me.
It was a magnificent un-burdening to be released
from the cage of pain my body had become. I felt a
hardening of my legs as they turned to wood stanchions with ornamental design. The pain fled from
my toes and ankles as the change took place.
Something went wrong. I was on my way to
the darkening when I felt a sharp tug at my core.
For a moment I heard a man’s voice, but I managed
my way back to the mysterious room. My lady had
faded considerably and I wanted to call out to her.
Before I could make contact, I felt another sharp
tug and a lightning bolt of pain shattered into my
chest. The ancient room ripped away, replaced
by harsh white light. I heard my wife, Alicia. Her
crying voice pierced the blinding veil. I felt her
pain commingle with my own and wanted it all
to be over. A doctor in a light green uniform depressed a needle’s worth of chemical into my arm
through an IV. I tried to scream, “NO!” but air
would not move through my vocal chords. I closed
my eyes and concentrated, but the shadowed room
was gone. Then I heard my wife’s voice pleading
with me through the darkness.
“James, please. Don’t leave me. I love you; I
need you here with me.”
When I heard my wife’s voice, I was struck
with sensibility. She needed me. She needed me
to be there with her, to help raise our daughter,
to help pay the mortgage, to have a life companion. Why was I ready to give up? The doctors said
there was hope. They said I just needed more time
for the treatment to take effect. Was I being selfish? I was looking for the easy way out. I had to be
strong. I had to think of my family.
I tried to move my hand, to give my wife a
sign that I was still here. I needed to be back with
her, to show her we could get through this together.
I tried to open my eyes again, but I could only
see an impervious black cloud before me. Then a
rotted green arm punched through the fog and the
woman’s gnarled hand grabbed my forearm. She
had returned to drag me back with her; back to her
domicile of death. I felt the cold emptiness ahead
and struggled to escape her grip. I felt pain as my
arm turned to petrified wood. It felt like hundreds
of razor-sharp tendrils, slashing and jabbing my
human flesh.
My wife’s voice called to me again, but it was
distant and weak. I struggled to scream but no
sound escaped my mouth. I was drowning in a
tumultuous sea of black water, struggling in vain to
get free from the iron grip of the cadaverous woman. I turned from her face searching for my wife,
the woman I loved.
Electric fractals raced through my being once
more and the green woman’s grip faltered. She retreated into the black fog of anonymity and I heard
my wife’s crying voice more clearly. Although the
bright lights were painful, I forced my eyes open a
slit. I saw Alicia’s distraught face hovering over me.
A tear fell from her cheek and hit me in the chin. It
warmed my heart to the core.
I heard the doctor explaining to my wife how
they had lost me, but then saved me from death. I
realized that Alicia was holding my hand. With all
the energy in my being I forced my hand to move.
I squeezed her hand. She burst into a new round of
tears, tears of relief as she smiled.