From The DeepA Story by alanwgraham A chilling psychological tale ! From The Deep In the beginning is the dark In the dark is the ocean In the ocean is a man In the man there are depths In his depths there is emptiness In his emptiness there is a mystery In the mystery there lies a question From the question you must seek the answer From the answer there comes darkness
The man, without name or memory, drifts in the dark, boundless ocean. For the man, existing only in the moment, time has no meaning. He drifts in a world of his senses without recourse to thought or memory. He feels the languid motion of the soporific swells and the gentle breeze on his brow. He swaddles in the womb warmth of the waters and is lulled by the murmur of the waves. In this moment, which for him is eternity, his realm is darkness.
In another moment for the man, neither before nor after, there is light. He is not surprised, for he exists only in each moment. However, as the moments pass, faint glimmers above grow inexorably until shimmering constellations dazzle his eyes. A shining orb appears, climbs steadily higher and higher, bewitching, mesmerising - tugging at the dark waters of the ocean, tugging at the dark tides within the man. Without motive or design, the man looks down, down into the immeasurable depths as a moth is attracted to light. Where before there had been darkness the shimmering lights above have ignited a vibrant phantasmagoria of creatures, a submarine spectacle of oceanic organisms, quivering and pulsating in a rainbow kaleidoscope of hues. They dazzle, delight and unbidden, bring a smile to the man’s face.
The man basks in unthinking delight at the flickering display as a baby coos with instinctive pleasure at his mother’s smile. Then, in a cataclysmic moment, his universe shudders - the fateful arrow of time will now unwind remorselessly - his future beckons! From the depths of the ocean a menacing presence forms, propagating at frightful speed, nebulous, monstrous, writhing, grasping, threatening, swallowing and sucking each flickering light into its darkness. The man’s heart convulses, scratching fingernails shriek in every fibre. The man, untroubled with memory, is oblivious that the
presence has erupted from within his own soul. Night becomes day. Some primeval urge ignites within the man. He moves his arms and legs and although not making progress towards any goal, he is now in motion. By the time the sun has traversed the whole arch of the firmament he is still moving forward through the darkening waters. Just as the light fades the man becomes aware of a dark smudge on the horizon but it affords him no comfort or import. Onwards, into the darkness, the man continues his unhurried progress. The faintest glow of red and orange bruise the sky where it meets the ocean. The sky lightens. The rays from the rising sun caress the man’s brow and he opens his eyes. He lays half out of the water feeling the roughness of sand on his cheek and the warm water lapping his legs. Still void of
wonder or purpose the man rises to his feet as unsteadily as a new born foal
and stumbles up the beach to sit on the dry sand. A handful of tall palms arch
above a swathe of grass. He looks around and observes the ocean unblemished by
land and kissing the blue sky in every direction. Exhausted from his time in
the ocean he lies down and sleeps. After a night he wakes. Rising to his feet he looks round at the sea, the sky, the sand and the trees, untroubled by thought of past or future. Darkness falls. The man sleeps. The sun rises. A flask of sweet water lies by his resting place, a bowl of fruit and bread beside it. Without a glimmer of surprise he drinks and eats. Darkness falls and day follows day. Until - one day he chances to look down and he sees
his own imprint pressed into the sand. For the man, it is that first glimpse in
the mirror, the first intimation of ‘ME’.
Although without the burden of past or the premonition of future he has
gained self-awareness - the ‘IT’ has transmuted into ‘ME’. He sits down and then
something magical happens when his fingers trace out marks in the sand. Then he
gasps when he looks at the marks and the sound ‘Adam’ comes from a hidden
place. He knows with certainty that this sound is attached to ‘HIM’ - it is his
name. One day Adam wakes to find another small island, a beach
of sand shaded by palms, separated from his by a short stretch of water. The
water between, roils and rages - an impassable barrier. He senses that something
in his universe has changed. When Adam looks at the opposite beach some time
later he sees a man on the sand, slim with short fair hair. He is looking at
Adam intently and he smiles as with recognition. From hidden depths a deep
unease claws its way up. The man
opposite raises his hand and shouts but the words are lost in the tumult of the
waves. As Adam watches, another man, taller and full bearded, appears from the trees opposite. He steps stealthily toward the fair haired man who is unaware of his approach. A step away, he raises the large club he is carrying and brings it down with all his force on the man’s head. Adam makes out a single tortured cry as the poor fellow falls unconscious to the sand. The killer lifts his head and fixes Adam with a malevolent glare of surprise. He brandishes the club at Adam in threat and Adam can make out that the pinkie on the man’s left hand is missing. Then he turns and strolls off unhurried into the trees. Adam eventually tears his eyes away and when he looks back moments later the island with its awful secret has vanished but he knows that something of unfathomable significance has just occurred. Apart from the shadow of that awful event which has cast itself over Adam like a dark cloud he remains fixed in his everlasting present. Time ticks along for Adam, measured by the breaking of the waves, the daily passage of the heavens and the relentless beat of his heart. However, deep inside Adam’s mind an imperceptible agitation has occurred which has set in train an unstoppable ascent into awareness, into the sensory world. His eyes open. His senses awaken. Light - at first unfocused, a patchwork of dark and light, muted colours. Sounds - indistinct, muffled, a hum, a buzz, the mumble of speech. Warmth on his face, the pressure of covers on his skin, the tug of a drip taped to his arm. Just as tuning the radio or adjusting binoculars makes all clear Adam gradually becomes aware of all becoming sharp, focused. Moving his eyes he see he is lying in a bed. Wires and tubes connect him to a machine which hums and beeps with glowing dials and indicators. The lighting in a small room is subdued. A nurse sits by the bed reading from a report. She glances at Adam and sees his eyes open, recognises the alertness in them. He sees a moment of surprise, a smile. ‘You’ve woken Adam!’ She calls the doctor. He holds Adams hand and shines a light in his eye. ‘Well Adam, you are definitely back with us. Can you talk?’ Adam manages a slight shake of his head. ‘Don’t worry, there’s no rush. We’ll let you rest now.’ Adam feels tired from even that small step and dozes. Later the doctor returns when Adam had woken. ‘I’ll explain what’s happened to you Adam. You were found unconscious with a very serious head injury. We had to operate and you’ve been in a coma for two weeks. Don’t worry - you’re going to be OK. It will just take time. We have your close friend here who has been desperate to see you. We’ll just let him say hello.’ A few minutes later the doctor shows the visitor into the room. ‘We’ll give you five minutes with Adam and leave you together.’ Adam can see the man now, tall and with a heavy beard. Close friend? Perhaps it is the subdued lights. Adam feels his anxiety rising. The man sits by the bed, takes his hand and squeezes. He leans across the bed and disconnects the monitor. Adam glances down at the man’s hand - his left hand. His pinkie is missing!
© 2020 alanwgrahamFeatured Review
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Added on August 27, 2020Last Updated on August 29, 2020 Author
alanwgrahamScotland, United KingdomAboutMarried with three kids, I retired early from teaching physics but have always enjoyed mountains. In my forties I experienced a manic episode which kick-started a creative urge. I've written a novel .. more..Writing
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