The Gloam

The Gloam

He tried to open his eyes. They stuck. His ears heard something. Did they? No. Maybe it was a dream? Perhaps a memory. He smelled… nothing. Like the smell of a hospital, a ward maybe. After it’s cleaned. After a death.

 

He rubbed his eyes. Just with his right hand. He couldn’t move his left. It stung. A pain in the wrist. He tried to lift it. It jarred, stayed in place. He manually pulled open one reluctant eye. Then the other. He could see only… glass. Three inches from his face. No, more like two. Still, no noises. No odours. Still.

 

He tried to move his toes. At first, they didn’t comply. His big toe on his left foot began to move. It shot with pain. Frozen. For too long. Others followed. Slowly, he balled the toes. Like a fist.

 

A kick. No force, almost. Another. Another. With everything he had. Wasn’t much. But a start. The glass. Too strong. Remorseless. Time passing. How long? He wasn’t sure. Was he even alive? Purgatory? Hell? A nightmare?

 

He rubbed his eyes. They were wet. Toes curling again. But not into a fist. They touched… something. Sharp. Edged. He poked. Slowly, deliberately. The glass disappeared. Abruptly.

 

He had fallen. Some distance, some pain. Though, he was intact. He thought. Now on the ground. Or a floor. He could see now. A bit. Grey. Lots of grey. Walls? Everything was dark. Darker than he could remember. Though, what he could remember was close to zero.

 

He lay there. A moment. A long moment. With effort—huge effort—he rolled on to his front. A ceiling? More grey. More dark. He didn’t like the shadows. Was it always like this? Did he just dislike shadows now?

 

He fixed his eyes on one point of the gloam. Tried to remember. Thought hard. Thought long. But inside his mind matched what he fixated upon. There was a vast, empty nothingness.

 

After hours. Perhaps days. A week? A fortnight. It began. A sound. Came in at first as a hiss. Then a whisper.

 

There within the darkness, a whirring. The sound—soft, but unerring. He attempted to ignore it. To sleep. But it increased. Unwelcome. Unyielding.

 

He wasn’t clear. If it was outside. In this room. If it was a room. Or, inside his head. Or imagined. Had the stay inside the glass rotted his mind, to the point where it now deceived him? Or was this chamber (room? tomb?) now actively torturing him? Mocking him?

 

“R…”

 

“Rrrr…”

 

It began to form into a sound. A sound that gnawed. A sound that refused to relent.

 

“Rrrrrii.”

 

“Rrrriiicchh…”

 

He turned his head. From one side. To the other. With great effort, cupped his ears to drown it out. Still, it continued. Tapping into him. Drilling into him.

 

“Rrriiichhaaarrrr…”

 

The voice. Caught on something. It jarred… something. He remembered… something.

 

“Rriichcharrddsss…”

 

He deduced the hiss has been an ‘s’ sound. He had heard it first. Was it catching, repeating? Was he simply regaining his hearing? Or his perception returning. He didn’t know. Perhaps, didn’t want to know.

 

“Rrichchards…”

 

A name. Was it? It triggered… something. A fragment. A colour. But still nothing came back. Nothing stuck. Nothing.

 

It clung in the air now. That sound. It felt like it didn’t just harangue his ears. But filled his eyes. His nose. Burnt his throat with a relentless squeeze.

 

“Richards…”

 

It formed fully. For the first time. Or the first time he was able to receive it.

 

“Richards.”

 

The voice. Clipped. Too polite. Lacking emotion. Lacking empathy.

 

Another long time passed. It did not relent. It repeated. Not allowing him rest. Not allowing him to think.

 

“Richards.”

 

“Richards.”

 

“Richards.”

 

Another long time passed. His eyes burning with the sound. His nose smelling for a clue, finding none. Through ashen lips, at last he spoke, “Yes.”

 

A very long moment passed. No sound. No repeat of the incessant repetition. He considered briefly the silence was worse. It confirmed the noise was inside his head. That he had lost his mind. That he was alone. Then at last, it returned.

 

“Richards. You know…”

 

His addled mind struggled to process this latest fragment. A question? An acknowledgement? A trap? A series of responses passed through what was left of his brain. He gambled, “I am him.”

 

Another long silence. Indeterminate.

 

“You know, Richards…”

 

Now, a pang. He felt something. At last. A paroxysm. Annoyance. No, frustration. Anger. He was done waiting. Done lying here.

 

“Tell me, “He still struggled to speak, “tell me why I am here.”

 

“Know you, Richards…”

 

“Tell me!”

 

Limbo. Dark, limbo. Minutes, hours, longer. Time became the enemy.

 

“Tell me!”

 

“Tell me!”

 

“Tell me…”

 

He repeated in the dark. Until his energy failed him. Or his hope. But nothing. As bad as the incessant sound had been. Worse.

 

“Ch…”

 

“Chch…”

 

“Chchee.”

 

“Chcheeesssssss.”

 

It began small, then grew again. Filled his ears. His eyes. His nose. Even his throat. From unbroken silence. To unbroken silence. Filled him. Hurt him Constricted him.

 

“Chesss…”

 

“Chess.”

 

He knew this word. He knew this game. He went to speak but was unable. He merely nodded, at the darkness.

 

Squares appeared. White. And black. Then pieces. Slowly at first. Then quicker. They sat there. Unmoving. As if deriding him. He reached out a hand. It was shaky. Tentative. He moved one of the black pieces. It snapped back into place.

 

He sat and looked at the board for a long moment. It was there in the center of this chamber. This room. This cell. There was again- no sound, no movement. He tried again, reached out with tepidity, touched one of the white pieces. Edged it forwards. As soon as he released his strengthless fingers, a black piece moved in turn.

 

A move. A countermove. He was ponderous. But the opponent instantaneous.

 

From somewhere, it came back to him. This game. Ebb by agonising ebb. He backed rival into a corner and the game ended.

 

Thus, the board re-set with an almost cruel immediacy. He tried to raise a fist in anger, but the will was not there.

 

“Tell me!” He began again, this time almost a plead.

 

“You know.” The first white piece moved. He had switched to black. He moved. Then a counter. On it went. Again, he backed the adversary into a corner. Again, he remembered. Bits. Fragments. A woman. A child. He had to work harder this time. The game was closer.

 

Again, the board re-set.

 

Now unable to speak, he raised his eyes and bared his teeth. Had he ever spoken? Was the voice ever there?

 

“You know.”

 

He began once more as white. Move after move. Seemingly without end. This time he saw the woman again. The child was a boy. A length of rope. He won once more, but the game was the closest yet.

 

This time, the mere movement of his eyes raised the same response from the voice.

 

“You know why.”

 

Then the game commenced once more. Harder, extracting a greater toll. More fragments of memories. A woman. A boy. A length of rope. Water. Then a box. Glass.

 

Seemingly in a game without end. Finally, he lost. He could not move on the board. He could not raise his eyes. Raise his arms.

 

“You know why you are here.”

 

And he did. At last. He knew.

 

The board reset. And then, only silence.