Cool rays from the full moon shower through an earthen opening sweeping across the damp glistening cave floor with the passage of night. Each corner of every jutting rock is illuminated by the cosmic light for minutes at a time, providing ample energy for the peculiar caven foliage to flourish. A flora dominated by a dynamic flower, both in beauty and action, indigenously named Vernesia. The Vernesia flower predominantly exists in its coiled sedentary state with its captivating petals shielded from potential preditors and stem lying limp against the earth. It is only in these brief minutes of fame when the depressed idler becomes the tall sprightly actor. Its stem straightening and lengthening towards the only bit of sky above. Its petals stiff from its slumber, unfold and reveal their spotted blue-grey spiral. At its core, white antennas protrude and glow a hot flickering shade of orange illuinating the cave with the illusion of fire light. They sprout in varying twos and threes and dosens through the night, but for every preformer which the spotlight attends, another yields to darkness. For those from whom the moonlight parts, a sense of fatigue grips them to the moss-covered rock until its next curtain call.
“Time to wake up, son. We’re here,” my father said as he wrestled the rusty shifter into the faded red P.
With my eyes still closed, I stretched my arms, half expecting to accidentally hit him in the face, but he was already gone.
“Hey!” I called, rushing to catch up with him. I jumped down to the soft earth of the lakeshore, cushioning my landing just enough to keep me upright. My legs were tingling and weak after sitting idle during our three hour trip upstate.
“Dad, the lake’s not going anywhere whats the rush?You forgot the poles! Hey, Dad?” I called out, hearing no response from the man standing at the foot of an old, forgotten dock. As I walked closer, I could see more of his face. First, his open but relaxed eyes reflecting the gentle waves. Then, his mouth, quivering slightly like a recently killed fish. Lastly, his brow, raised in a mix of confusion and wonder.
“Dad? Is everything okay?” I asked, standing at his side.
As he turned his head to look at me, his face lit up. “Son, this is a sight I haven't seen since I was your age. Your grandfather used to bring me to this very dock every summer, and by God, I can't believe it's still here!”
“Wow, that’s amazing,” I said, sarcastically. “But we’re going to find a more... uh... stable dock to fish from, right?”
“Oh, hush! We'll be just fine here. They don't make 'em like this anymore,” he said as he bounced on the rickety old dock.
“Okay, okay! I get it! Just stop before you fall in. I might be able to reel in a bass, but I’m not sure you’d even take the bait,”
He chuckled and sent me to grab our gear. In a few minutes of well-rehearsed fishing preparation, our bobbers were floating on the waves of that peaceful lake.
After a couple of hours and a quick lunch, the sun began to descend over the forested hills to the west, its rays casting a warm gradient of summer across the sky. As we reeled in our lines and packed up, my father paused. “You know, it’s been decades, but I just realized—this is the same lake where I met your mother. You know, when I fell in, and she had to help me back up onto the dock. This dock!” A pause.“I was so content being a careless kid that I didn’t notice all I had overlooked.”
“That’s pretty special, Dad,” I said, half-listening. “Alright, it’s getting late, and we should really get going. Mom sa—”
“Hold on, just give me a minute. Let’s enjoy this, soak it in.”
“While you stand there soaking, I’m going to take a piss on that tree. I know we’re not stopping on the ride home.” A tad annoyed, I walked to a tree that stretched out over the water, illuminated by the warm reflection of the sky on the waves. I leaned on that old oak and reflected on what this moment must mean to my father. Coming back to a place long forgotten by many, yet still standing after all these years, like it was waiting for us. I watched my father's sharp silhouette standing on that special dock, its misshapen lines and every splinter clearly defined. Then suddenly, the tree gave way from its roots, and I fell into the mud below. I wiped the muck from my face and grabbed the thin hand stretched towards me.
“You’ve got to be careful what you lean on around here. Some of this stuff is ancient… I’m Holley, by the way.”
“-and you wonder why I cant stand you anymore! How about you fu-” my mother paused. She was on constant high alert ever since my father hit her and this time was no different. Despite my best efforts to slowly open the door, right before that one spot which makes that god awful noise, somehow she heard me. The all to common feeling of sorrow, terror, and oddly embarrassment, begin to set in as she gets closer to turning the corner.
The real life nightmare I experienced just a month ago intrudes on my thoughts. My mother black and blue with her nose bashed in. Swollen so much from the impacts of his fists she could barely breathe. All I could think to do was call the police for help. I had to take control because my mother was completely incapacitated, or at least she was all except for the one action she could still manage. She grabbed my phone and told me no. To this day I still dont think I fully understand why she didn’t want the cops to come. Why would she want to protect HIM.
“Your late” she says as she comes into view. It seems she has only taken half of the beating from the month before. As her eyes lock with mine her stern stare floods with tears. “Just go to your room!” She says hysterically “Mom I-” “You’re done hanging out with your little friends! I need you here!” The truth is I’ve become more of a loner each time this sort of thing happens. Im only late the times I can hear them fighting from the street. Ill turn my music to 11 and check if the yelling has stopped in between songs. Today I sat in there for an hour before I built the curage to go in.
“You dont tell mah son wat tuh doo.” My dad stumbles in holding a bottle of his favorite whiskey. “He’s man enough to make his - decisions.” “This is it dad.” I said “Are you talkin back tuh me?” “No Im telling you. Its over” I lunge at him “What are you doing boy!” After that I never heard his drunken voice again. I can confidently say that what I did was wrong. What I did was far from the best outcome, but I dont regret it for a second. I know we are safe.
‘-cant believe I was so-‘ Johns mind grinds to a halt. He cant seem to recall what he was just thinking about. As elegant as it was frustrating that thought disappeared. Come to think of it John had no idea where he was exactly. He scans the room from his left, already disgusted by the various images of dismembered bodys placed proudly on each wall, he notices a sticky note clinging to his bedside table. Signed by a man named James and printed in handwriting so sloppy it took a second look at it to recognize the language which it was written. It wrote “It will all be fine. Just relax”. Printed at the top of this note was a blood red cross which John could only characterize as vaguely demonic. Continuing to his right a large window enters his view. John gazes down the vacant hallway beyond. He was alone. A sharp pain disrupts his thoughts of loneliness. Its location self described as the forward part of his head just above his eyes. As his hand reaches to examine the wound it is quickly jolted back to its position at his side. It was only at this moment which John realized that he was firmly strapped to the bed which he lies. The very next thought was again interrupted by the forehead pain which was obvious to John at this point would not release anytime soon. John now doubts that his name really is John at all. Simon? Was it Paul? Eventually he convincingly settles on the name Tom for now. ‘My name is the least of my problems. I need to figure out where in the-‘ That thought, which alike all the thoughts before, was interrupted, this time, by a deafening screech. Now the assumption he was alone is all but as real as the name he first gave himself. Now the various assortment of glistening knives and tools resting on the tray beside his bed are ever more frightening. The fight or flight response consumes him now. Pulling ever so harder on those wretched straps holding him down. “HELP! HELP! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME! GET ME OUT OF THIS PLACE!” He yells. Footsteps which seem to be coming from 3 set’s of feet are galloping at an increasing volume. Whomever has Tom trapped in this place is making there way to the room. Each passing second the terror builds in side him. Regretting his previous action more than he has ever regretted anything he can remember. He turns his head away as the door knob makes its initial motion. The door swings open. Three nurse’s all dressed in white hospital garment sprint to his bed side. The tall one says. “James. You’re in the hospital. You had an accident. Everything is going to be alright”
