A. Valley of Death
“You haunt me in my dreams, taking each and every moment that forms my reality.”
Marcus, staring into the mirror, gazes at his oppressor: his ex-wife. It’s only a picture tucked into the frame , still it carries the full weight of ghastly presence. Tears slowly travel down his face. They continue the same journey they had taken the night before. Beginning another day with sorrow makes the word “tomorrow” a concept hard to swallow. Having lost his woman to a woman, Marcus still wonders how he can call himself a man. Walking from the bathroom to the kitchen seems like a hike up Mount Everest. Passing moment by moment of morbid pain, he drags his feet. He walks as though being alone is a physical distortion . When he finally gets to the coffee maker, he goes through the motions to make coffee, yet he knows it will not wake him up from this nightmare.
The scene outside only deepens the sorrow; it’s sunny. Brightening the empty house. Each and every ray of sunshine reveals the toys of a child that never touched them. A child who never took a first breath. The thought of “why me” has haunted Marcus since the day Ramiah was a tear and a smile. Now only a memory in joint sorrow with Courtney.
Marcus turns on the television in the family room. News showing that the civil war is real, and close by. Ever since the second American Civil War started four months ago, the only people that take it seriously are in the cities where conflict is imminent. The rebellion forces started in California but are now crossing into Arizona. And the suburbs are not always spared the carnage.
He looks at the news, empty of cognition and heavy in agony. Many times he has thought about the pills in the bathroom, other times the pistol in the bedside drawer—maybe they could offer solutions to his grief problem. As he pours the coffee he thinks about the katana above the TV.
As if responding to a ghost of his wife, he yells , “Maybe that stupid sword can kill this stupid husband!”
He mixes in two sugars and two creams in a to-go cup. As he heads back to the bedroom he tries to figure out what he’ll wear. Each combination of suit and tie is a sharp reminder that Courtney used to pick out everything for him. He grunts as though it will help the decision process. When half the closet is on the bed he makes a single choice. Red tie and white shirt with a black suit. Getting dressed he moves as though he’s a zombie, frustrated with every move, and making a sound of agitation when something doesn’t go fast enough. He sits on the edge of the bed when he finishes, dropping his head into his hand as he’s unable to hold back the tears.
It's his morning mourning ritual. He has done it for two months, ever since Courtney left: For ten minutes he cries, then washes his face, and plays a song. Right around the fifth minute the doorbell rings. In the middle of a sob he straightens up and moves toward the door.
It’s Pat, Courtney’s new lover. She was never a congenial person to Marcus. When they told him the news, she had no concern for his feelings. Looking through the peephole he watches as she knocks again, impatiently.
He tries to prepare himself, but as he takes a deep breath he hears Courtney’s voice in the background. Pat responds and then knocks again as he opens the door. The moment she walks in, condemnation follows her. Marcus tries to escape back to his room. Knowing she is here to pick up Courtney’s things. How could he forget that they were coming by this morning? He would’ve shifted his morning mourning ritual, but now it’s been interrupted. Courtney used to write sticky notes to remind him of events.
When they pass each other in the dining room, a room full of fragile things, she begins to pick at him. “Hey idiot, did you forget again that we were coming? Man, you seem to let everything slip away from you.”
Holding in tears is not a talent Marcus has. They were the treasures Pat always collected when she came by. She always smiled as he would struggle to reign them in. Closing the bedroom door and sitting back on the bed, Marcus is suddenly not on speaking terms with equilibrium. He knows that this will only throw his morning off. He may have to go into work looking a mess. Something he did well not to do. He never wanted to bring damage from home into the sanctuary of his work. After Pat and Courtney have left, he grabs his keys and walks out to his car–only to see Pat’s car headed down the street. He catches a glimpse of Courtney and rallies the remainder of his strength to keep from crying in the driveway.
When Marcus gets to work ten minutes late, his boss walks over slowly. With grace and sympathy he says, “Hey Marcus. It’s nice to see you today. I’m having an office meeting after work.”
“OK, Mr. Anderson, I’ll be there.”
Marcus kept his numbers up after the separation, so he begins to wonder at the sudden feeling that his job security was not so secure. As the sun shifts from the morning and find its five o’clock shadow, Marcus remains confused. Work is the only thing keeping him semi-sane. A model employee for three years straight. Work is a break from the hollow house, and a hollow him.
As everyone fills into the conference room, Mr. Anderson walks onto the stage in front of everyone and begins solemnly, “I practiced what to say but still don’t know how to break it to you… The war has been hard on the company. So hard that last week the rebels hit and destroyed our corporate headquarters. The Board is either dead or missing. We are no longer a company. Thus we are all fired. In fact, the last message from my supervisor was to get somewhere safe. So I urge you to take your stuff and leave. I’m leaving tonight. Ever since the rebels crossed the state line we know this war is for real and you need to go ahead and gather your families and leave. Sorry for not notifying you earlier, but I needed some sense of normality before I told you the truth.”
Encumbered thoughts of distress fill the room until the layered and varied reactions bubble over. Some yell, others freeze in fear, while a few bolt out of the conference room.
Marcus feels the last ounce of his sanity sail away. Why had Pat and Courtney not warned him how close the war was getting? Not only did Courtney stab him in the heart, but left him in a war zone? Did she have any moral fiber left? Or was it all strung around Pat? Hysteria sweeps across the room, but Marcus only sinks into calmness. He walks slowly back to his office to gather his things. His mind and heart focus on the pain, but his temperament remains neutral. His cup of Enough is filled with the loss of the last thing attaching him to this world. His movements now that of a dead man walking.
He arrives back home only to turn on the news and cook himself dinner. After he eats he lays in the bed, gazing at the ceiling. A few tears are released as he falls asleep, escaping into his only safe place: the realm of dreams.
The sun greets him again. Waking him to the news station still broadcasting in the other room. When he pours some cereal into a bowl, he notices the headline: Rebel General in City. He flashes to a moment of care before a most peculiar idea infects his thinking. The pills may not work, the gun is too messy, and the katana requires too much self-will. Yet, to die in the carnage of a civil war? No one will know if it’s his fault or the fault of the shooter.
He thinks, My mom will cry but won’t be disappointed in me. My siblings will miss me but won’t think I’m selfish. I can either wait or run to the front lines and someone else will do the deed that needs to be done. I can run in with an empty gun and be mistaken for a rebel or federal force. It doesn’t matter who fires the bullet, just as long as it’s fired.
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