Sunshine-Chapter One

They say a sound or a smell can take you back to a certain memory; or that sometimes we throw ourselves into memory to protect ourselves from something that's causing us pain.

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       I can hear a motherly voice singing to me, and feel the warmth of her loving embracesas she coos at me - 'you are my sunshine, my only sunshine.' Her forgiving features are gently wrapped by her soft amber hair - 'you make me happy when skies are grey' - as a bright vale of golden sunlight creates a halo around her face.

      I hear a loud crash in the distance; her doe like eyes look away from mine towards something ahead of her - 'you'll never know dear.' She sets me down in my worn pack-and-play, hushing my cries with a gentle kiss on my forehead - 'how much I love you' - and walks towards the noise.

      I am surrounded by a sheet of darkness, unsure and afraid of what is going on. I can hear a man yelling; it's the voice of a large man, a man I am very familiar with, a man that kissed me goodbye in the morning and angrily cursed me to bed at night. A man armored in unforgiving muscles, with a face as sour as it is dark, with a rasping thunder of a voice. I hear her pleading, and him fighting. I hear her cry, and him scream in return. Then I hear nothing... nothing except the sound of a drawer opening. Nothing except the sound of a gun being loaded. Then a bang... then a thud... 'so please don't take my sunshine away.'

      I jerk awake, coated in a cold sweat. My heart beating wildly in my chest, I sit up in my bed to catch my breath. I turn my body so I'm facing my New York City apartment window, letting my feet search for my slippers on the cold floor. With my head in my hands, I try to center myself before standing up to get a glass of water.

      The old oak boards creak beneath my feet as I languidly make my way to my flat's cupboard of a kitchen. The digital clock on my microwave confidently telling the time in bright green numbers. 1:30am, "Well," I say to myself in my well-worn voice, "I got a few hours of sleep, more than last night at least."

      The stale fragrance of my fridge and the leftovers it encases greats me coldly as I reach for the pitcher to fill my glass up. I poke my nose through my fridge and past the week-old takeout that I dare not open. Not finding anything to settle my boredom induced hunger I close the door and walk over  to my couch.

      The familiar musky odor of my old friend and companion welcomes me, ushering me to indulge myself in what late night television has to offer. I carelessly flip through the channels, not truly paying attention to the screen in front of me. I finally land on one of those shows where they track down petty criminals and arrest them, but I'm not really watching it. I'm more or less just staring blankly at the tv with an empty mind. The sound of late night bounty hunters bouncing through the room, mixing with the never-ending noise of my sleepless city, and filling the hollowness of my ears.

      It may seem odd, but I can't help but relate to the people in those shows. While I'm not physically trapped in a prison cell, I feel like I am. Instead of barbwire fences and guards, I am imprisoned by my own thoughts. It's an unceasing, unbreakable, unescapable prison that traps me in my mind to be torment by the voices that dictate every single move I make. The walls are miles high and impenetrable, blacking out any stray beam of sunlight that has the unachievable goal of attempting to bring some light into my dark, lonesome life. The consuming claustrophobia tempting me with sinful vices that only temporally numb the acheless pain.

      I watch tv for an hour more and then pick up my now empty glass and take it back to fridge to fill it up with more water. But, as it often goes, I bypass the water pitcher and grab the nearly empty bottle of whiskey tucked away in my cupboard. I help myself to the rest and then climb back into my bed.

      The clock by my bed reads 2:18 am, "Great... I get to stare at the ceiling for another 4 hours" I say to myself as I settle into my nightly routine of hunting for face in the texture of my popcorned ceiling. It has become a bit of a game for me, I set a goal to find at least 10 new faces a night. Most nights I surpass that goal, other nights I get caught up in the old friendly faces of nights long pass. There's this one face that I've been visiting every night since I moved into the apartment 8 years ago. She has a soft, gentle face, like my mother's was. It's a welcomed contrast to the other misshaped, grotesque faces that I usually find... I find comfort in her features, her tender smile is like a warm hug that I can nestle into and hide from the outside world in. . .

Author's Note

Let me know what you think, and feel free to give me any suggestions or ask any questions you might have. Remember, however, that this is work in progress and nowhere near finished.