"It was a Dark and Stormy Night..."

By- Brendan Butler

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It was a dark and stormy night, but I wasn't sleeping. The rain sounded as if it was about to break the windows, the wind, bending the trees, howling its songs through the holes in the wall. I couldn’t sleep, but I knew I had to. It was the last time I would ever sleep, because tomorrow was the day.  

Of course I had done nothing wrong. I've been waiting 12 years, 12 years for anything, something to show I did nothing wrong.  I wasn't even there when it happened, I was home, alone, working when I got a knock on the door. And I swore my life, swore what was left of my family, I had done nothing. 12 years today. 12 years ago today is when she died. And 12 hours from this moment, so will I. 

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I often wondered what it would be like. How it would feel, how I would feel. I doubt it would hurt much, it would be over so soon. Maybe like getting a shot at the doctor's, you close your eyes, you count to 10, you feel the pinch, and you open your eyes and its all over. There stands your mother and father, your doctor, and the bright paint and light of the pediatrician's office. But it's been 12 years, and none of them are there when I open my eyes. Only when they're closed. 

It's not fear. I've had 12 years of that, fear I would never be set free. But that fear is gone, because I know my fate. Its not nervousness, anxiety, I know what will become of me. I know what's going to happen,  how it will look, smell, who will be there, what time it will happen. Its always just one question.  

Why? 

I'm not a religious man. I went through a time here where I "found God" but that time is far behind me. I know there's nothing after tomorrow, so who? Not who did the crime, I am far past caring, but who did this to me. Who cared so little that they would just throw away someone else's life? It’s a concept to which I always figured I'd be desensitized. I'd lose my humanity, sympathize with the disregard for other people. But here, in this jail, you find more humanity than ever before. You don't become truly human until you pay for what you've done. That’s when you discover how you really are inside, no matter what you thought. By the end, everyone is innocent, even if they're not. 

I always wondered what I would do if I figured out who really did it. At first it was murder. From there it grew more sadistic, for lack of a better word. But never did I think I would reach this point. Yes, I wanted to know who, but that’s where it would end. I was indifferent. I guess it was just the rational part of my brain. There was nothing I could do, there was nothing to be done. I was as good as dead.  

It was still dark. It was still storming. And yet I could still see the grey of my walls through the muddy dark of the black night. I guess my eyes had adjusted; I had been in pitch black for 12 years. I had given up on sleep at this point; what would I need the energy for? I was more awake than ever before, yet calm. Relaxed. But not at peace. It was a situation beyond my control, but I could have done more. 

Not to stop it from happening. But before. I didn't love enough. I didn’t live enough. I didn’t laugh, work, strive, succeed, fail, cry, smile, breath, drink, eat, walk enough. I could have done so much more. Maybe that’s what they locked me up for. Maybe I'm already dead. Maybe this is hell. Maybe that's life's greatest sin, unforgiveable. Living for the end of the day, existing just to die.  

I felt myself drifting off. Perhaps it was best if I slept, best if I let myself dream. 

When I woke up the first time I was not awake. I was home, or what once was home. No one else was there, and everything had fallen to pieces. It was dark and gloomy, but not yet raining. The rain had yet to fall.  

I still knew the entire house like the back of my hand. Twelve years of a stone cold four corner closet, and I couldn´t get that house out of my head. But what was different, was the noise. Or lack thereof. Last I remember it was nothing but traffic. Cars screeching, horns honking, a siren blaring, my daughter laughing, my wife smiling, then losing her smile when they knocked on the door, when they asked where I was, when they took me away... 

That was all gone. I was dreaming, not of the past but the present. They were not there the day I was taken away. I was alone, I never got to say goodbye, never got to explain, nothing. I never saw them again. I hadn't seen them since that morning. It was the usual fare. I said goodbye to my kids on their way to the bus stop, had a cup of coffee, realized I was running late for work, kissed my wife goodbye and sprinted to my car. I didn't say tell her I loved her, and maybe that’s what made all the difference. Maybe that’s why she never came back. Fuck, do I even know if she's still alive? If she remarried? I'm sure she could've found some way out of our marriage. What if she's dead? What if my children are dead? It's very well possible I wouldn't know. I mean for Christ's sake, I don't even know who the president is.  

No, I'm just bullshitting myself now. They're all alive, but they're all gone, too. As far as I'm concerned, though, they're as good as dead.  

I came back home to an empty house that day. I don't remember where my children were, maybe some soccer game, or a friend's house. And my wife was rarely home as it was, off avoiding me and her own goddamn children, sleeping around, ignoring me when she was home. No, no. Who am I kidding? She never did that. She was faithful, loyal, loving. So where was she? How could she just have forgotten?  

I hadn't even noticed I had woken up before I fell back asleep.  

When I woke up again there was thunder, no lightning. Rain that never reached the ground. I was walking down a hall, with vomit covered walls and a shiny brown tile floor. It was quiet, so every footstep, every breath, every heartbeat would echo back and forth and back and forth until it was just lost into another echo.  I was walking behind three people, two men on either side of the third, escorting him wherever this hallway ended. They all looked ahead, never breaking their stare, but not looking at anything in particular. It was better than looking at each other. Because soon, sooner than later, the group of three would leave as two.  

I don´t remember how the dream ended, but it was around that point that I realized the man in the middle was me.  

When I woke up for the third time I was still dreaming. It was a dark and stormy night. It was black, not by the sky but the clouds. The rain was blinding. I knew I was alone, but it felt like someone was there. I think for the first time, I could feel myself. I could feel myself crying, but I

couldn´t tell the tears from the rain. I was happy, though. I thought I was ready, but I wasn´t. I never would be. And that was okay. And it was then I saw my past. My family. They didn´t see me, and if there was anything after tomorrow, they never would again. And that was okay.  

Now I was laughing. Hysterically laughing. I didn’t know why. I was still crying, but I felt okay. I wasn’t at peace or anything. I would still be shit-your-pants scared and nervous tomorrow. I would still sob, I would still mourn myself. But I hadn´t accepted that until now. And that was okay. 

My family was still there. They were staring not at me, but through me. Maybe I´d see them again. If I don’t go to hell when I die, maybe I´ll go to heaven. But probably not. Because if no one down here could prove me innocent, I´m as sure as hell no one in the sky will either.  

Yea, now I was laughing.  

I wouldn’t go as far as to say I woke up the final time, but I was awake. It was probably 9:30; I had gotten pretty good at guessing. It was light out, the sun was out, but the ground was a sopping mess.  

I didn't have nearly as much on my mind as I thought I would. I had this strange urge to pray, which I ignored. I felt somewhat relieved of my fears, in a strange sort of way. I mean, everything I had to be afraid of would be gone soon. I was leaving, and taking nothing with me. All my sorrow, and depression, and hunger, and all the little bugs that scared me so much, the heights, the betrayal, the broken promises, the fear of death. The fear of death would be gone. I was either going to heaven, hell, or nowhere at all. I either had nothing to worry about, or no use worrying at all. I could just live forever, somewhere, or nowhere, and it wouldn't be here. Everything, the last 12 years, would be gone. And while I suppose there were some things I didn't want to forget, they were a necessary sacrifice on my road to being at peace with myself.  

Everything after that was a blur for the most part. I didn’t think much over the course of the next hour. The only thing on my mind was that bird´s nest. When I was younger, 8 or 9, before I went to go live with my mom, there was this tree. That fucking tree. It must´ve been a bird sanctuary or something, because there were at least 20,000 birds in that goddamn tree. From my window, I could see this one nest. Just one. There was an entire world of birds in that tree, and I could only see one nest. That always kind of confused me, but I always tried not to get too hung up on it.  

So there was one bird in this nest for a while, just roosting, sitting on her eggs. Everyday, I'd come home from school, or wherever I was and I would see this nest. I spent a lot of my evenings just sitting there, watching, learning how the world worked. I watched her eggs hatch. Everyday I would run home, because I didn’t want to miss her feeding them. I watched them grow bigger, I watched them learn to fly. I watched some of those birds die learning to fly. I never got why those birds couldn't just walk. They had legs didn’t they? 

But they never left. I don’t know much about birds, but I always figured birds left once they could fly. But these birds stayed. So did every bird in that tree.  

Eventually I stopped watching. I don’t know what it was, I just lost interest. I began to curse that bird for bringing more birds to that tree, because I didn’t appreciate the added noise that I had to deal with every morning.  

One day, just for old time sake, I looked out my window again. The nest was still there, the birds were still there. The only difference was that the mother bird was tagged. I remember not knowing what that meant at the time, I remember being really upset.  

​

So summer came and went, so did autumn, and before I knew it the birds had left the tree. Heaven on earth. I never slept better than I did those winter months. I think, deep down, I missed the sounds of summer. I think I secretly enjoyed that familiar chirping. But goddamn if I don’t enjoy sleeping more.  

So winter came and went, and it was April. The birds came back, some of them at least. But none returned to the nest right near my window. Except the mother. The tag was still around her ankle. She came back and stayed for a little while. As far as I'm concerned she never left. But her children did. And eventually so did she. I guess the birds do leave once they can fly.  

No more birds came to that nest. And that summer we cut down the tree and I moved in with my father.  

It was truly impossible for me to look back on that memory with anything but fondness. I always remembered it was this childlike innocence, an angst and a vulnerability that could not be replicated when you had seen what the world truly had to offer. It always popped into my head at the strangest moments. After my first date, a memory of my youth I would much rather not remember, I sat in the front seat of my dads car, engine running, windshield fogging up, just staring. That tree, those birds, that mother was all I could think about. In my College English class during my senior year of high school, when we read excerpts from The Wasteland, and I was so lost, except for those first few lines, because all they made me think about was the mother coming back to see her children, only to find nothing there, even though she knew they wouldn't be there, but she hoped, and her hopes were lost, and she left and never came back, and it was that moment exactly I knew I would never understand the Wasteland, but for some reason it always made me think of those birds. And my marriage, every fight me and my wife had, my first (and last) promotion at work, when I was fired, when I was arrested, and every birthday, Christmas, anniversary, and Fathers day where I didn’t get a call or a visit or a letter, believe me I kept track, and every time I tried to end it all because I knew there was nothing, I thought about the mother, who knew there was nothing left but she came back anyway. It was all the happy, all the sad, it was the memory that was with me through everywhere where I needed it, even when

I thought I didn't.  

And whenever I thought I needed it most, all I could remember was that fucking chirping.  

And that’s what was with me as I went to die. And honestly? That was okay. If that chirping was the last thing I would hear before I died, at least I could die knowing that that tree was cut down, that no one else had to deal with the birds and their stupid goddamn tree.  

I don’t remember it all too well, where they took me, what they did. I just know that I fell asleep and I died. And no one was there. Not even me.  

The dark was leaving, the storm had left, and I was gone.