Darkheart

The Present: Light & Dark

The sun was beginning to set. Contrary to common understanding of sunsets, there were no pinks and oranges and golds, no stratification of warm color. From Kevin's perspective on the outer walkway of his second-floor motel room, the sun resembled a glimmering crimson ball, and the way it slowly slid downward brought to mind a drop of blood. Red light dusted the black silhouette of the treeline beyond the parking lot; sounds of the freeway behind the motel completed the incongruous and unsettling picture. It was as if light itself were dying, seeping back into whatever pore of the earth it had crept from. Oh, Kevin knew he'd been told light came from space, the sun and stars . . . rudimentary science, of course. And yet, how embryonic was his or any human's understanding of how it all worked? Wasn't it all based on laws of physics the human mind could comprehend? What he knew . . . what he'd touched all those years ago . . . it hadn't been right; it didn't fit any known rules. And so who was to say for sure where the light came from and what would eventually take it back? If at some point Port Killdeer itself cracked open, revealed a primordial maw, and sucked the light of the world into the very core of the earth, Kevin was sure he wouldn't be surprised.

Whatever vastness existed beyond his globe of dirt and stone and cold unforgiving crystal was insignificant compared to what lay within. Humankind's attempts to move off the surface of their planet had seemed ridiculous, ever since he'd seen what was beneath. Weren't rockets and rovers childish playthings? The universe was indifferent to their pebble, and all the fuss and furor of Earth's multitude of lifeforms was the silent cry of a withering creature that had never quite lived. What they were--humans, plants, animals, any of it--was mere scum on the surface of a profound abyss, a depth so incomprehensible no constricted organic matter could interpret its geometry.

He tapped the ash off his cigarette. It didn't matter. He didn't matter. He'd come to terms with it some time ago, the confirmation of all he'd felt but couldn't quite name during his childhood years. The only question he really had, at that point, was why he'd kept going.

And yet, didn't he know the answer? He'd kept going because he was compelled to do so. Because he had no choice in the matter.

When he'd woken from his coma, he'd immediately wondered why. By all accounts, he never should've woken. The doctors had been in the process of locating family, trying to figure out whether to continue life support, but within an hour of Heather arriving at his room, he'd been up and alert, as if his brain hadn't been damaged at all. This had bewildered the doctors, who'd been absolutely certain the meat of Kevin's head couldn't have recuperated from the blunt force trauma it had sustained. And his fractured ribs, his punctured lung, the internal bruising and bleeding and swelling . . . There was no way he should've recovered to the miraculous extent that he had. They'd wanted him to stay, to care for him, to study him; the police had wanted him to stay, too, to question him in order to locate his attackers. But Kevin had refused any and all probing, physical or otherwise, and with Heather's help, he'd been out of there within a week. It wasn't as if they could keep him; he hadn't committed a crime, after all.

Heather hadn't even asked him what'd happened, why he'd been there; it was the only thing he appreciated about her. Otherwise, the woman's presence was entirely unwelcome.

Kevin hadn't spoken with any of the others since it'd happened, fifteen years ago. He'd been luckier than they--he'd just graduated, so he hadn't had to return to school and face people. In fact, he'd left town immediately, forgetting his father and brother and just heading to Detroit with a couple of acquaintances and literally nothing to his name except whatever he'd fit into a backpack. He hadn't looked back, just bounced around from place to place and job to job, even been homeless for a while until he'd gotten into a good enough situation to rent an apartment and maintain steady work, but he'd always known he'd return to Port Killdeer. He just hadn't known when. So when he'd left the restaurant that one night to atone for his poor choices, as he was being beaten within an inch of his life, he'd been sure everything was over, in spite of the inevitability of his return. And as blood had filled his unswollen eye and his brain dissociated itself from the pain everywhere else, he'd felt as close to happiness as he'd been in fifteen years.