From The Darkest Part Comes The Brightest Light - A Sneak Peek

Not all prisons have bars. Some live in your memories, your body, your breath.

This excerpt from my upcoming novel, From the Darkest Part Comes the Brightest Light, explores a period of my life when I was stripped down to the bare bones of existence — alone with my thoughts, my pain, and the echo of a voice I could never quite escape.

The air was so saturated with the nauseating stench of stale urine, sewage and rat shit, that I could taste it on my tongue, and it made my insides churn and burn and migraines invaded my head as though it were happy hour at the local pub. I never imagined that I would end up here, but it was my home. It was impossible to take deep breaths because the retching would rack my entire body. In time I knew I would get used to it. That thought scared me more than anything else. I would get used to it…it was my home.

I found two wooden pallets at the back of a warehouse and I placed them together, finishing off my makeshift bed with a green blanket that was given to me by a very kind lady. It was comfortable enough. I wish I had my pillow though. I could not get it back, so I stuffed all of my clothes into my book bag and I used that. It was comfortable enough, plus my smashing head of hair gave me some extra cushioning. I looked around in despair. In time I knew I would get used to it…it was my home.

Nights were sixty-seven cold hours, or at least, that was how it seemed. The air was thicker than cold custard, and filled with the sound of crickets, and the ominous “chirping” of lizards. The predators were out hunting. I protected myself best I could from the swarm of vampiric mosquitoes by wearing long sleeve hoodie, long pants and knee high socks. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop the rats from sniffing at my feet every once in a while. Curious. Perhaps they were checking to see if I was still alive. Didn’t take much to scare them away though, just a wiggle of the toes sent them scampering off into God knows where.

I never imagined that I would end up here, but I was. The question was, “what’s going to happen next?”. I looked at the other homeless people around me. The light of meaning was gone from their eyes, and they were people yes…living…breathing…but they weren’t really alive…like zombies. Zombies on an endless stumble toward nothingness, hands outstretched, silently pleading for a help that would be forever out of their reach. No destination…no purpose…no meaning…no life. I wondered if happiness existed in this realm, or if it was only the natural instinct to survive each day. It was after all completely absent, apart from the occasional or frequent chemically induced “euphoria”, the only escape from the reality of lifelong suffering, and potent misery. This was not what I wanted, no. It scared me. How did I end up here?

I guess it didn’t really matter. Neither did the why. The only thing that mattered was surviving another day, and then another after that. The only worry was the now. But I was too tired to do even that. I needed some sleep. I needed to escape the horror that was the present. The problem was, the dream was even worse.

Have you ever been so encompassed by the memory of someone, that you were afraid to close your eyes at night? Whenever I did, there would first be a momentary darkness, followed by a cascade of images that activated every single negative emotion I had at the exact same time. My heart rate increased so quickly, it felt as though my heart was pumping air rather than blood. My chest tightened painfully as though someone were trying to crush my sternum in a bear hug. I sat up quickly before it took a hold of me and dragged me down into the murky depths of death and despair.

The world was quiet, but I could still hear that voice, like a persistent tinnitus, slightly louder than a whisper and degrading. It kept repeating the words “I hate you” - like a broken record that repeats itself and won’t stop until you literally smash it to pieces.

“I hate you”, The voice funnily enough wasn’t mine. It was my mother’s. And I detested it. It was a voice that made my stomach clench, and my mouth go dry. “I hate you” - It was a voice that wilted smiling faces, and sapped every ounce of happiness from the world. “I hate you” - It was a voice that was borne of something worse than darkness. And it lived in the deepest part of my brain like a parasite - feeding almost lovingly off of my pain, and anguish. It felt as though I was trapped within a prison I could neither see, nor smell, nor touch, nor taste - an inescapable prison.

As the days turned into weeks, the darkness within my heart grew like a cancer. It infected my mind, clouded my thoughts, and brought me closer and closer to the brink of corruption. I knew that if I became bitter, it would eventually mutate into resentment, then even further into vengefulness, and it would continue downhill from there, the only end to that pathological pathway being the death of not just myself, but of others as well. Just thinking about it made my skin crawl, but it was a possibility I had to confront and then move beyond because I knew that I was better. But was I really? I did not know. I really did not know.

I wanted to tell someone, but I was afraid to open up to anyone, not just because I didn’t want them to look at me differently, but also because I thought that they were better off without me in their lives. I felt like a burden. I felt as though everyone was forcing themselves to put up with me and were probably glad that I was where I had ended up.

And there it was, the first hallmark of suicide ideation. I believed that no one cared. I believed that the world would have been better off without me in it. Funnily enough, the thought of taking my own life hadn’t quite come to mind in that moment, but the desire did not take long to manifest itself. It was a desire not borne from an indication of my perceived lack of self worth, but rather from a desperate need for silence. Quiet. Complete…

To be continued…