Lost in Dispair

Lost in dispair

“Flames. Flames from hell. Claws, pulling me down while I can’t move. It keeps happening. I just don’t know what to do anymore,” I murmured, my voice almost feverish.

“Recurring themes in dreams are strong indicators of trauma, PTSD, or other similar psychological afflictions. Something the subconscious refuses to let go of. I see it often in my patients, Mr. Durant, and as uncharming as the solution might sound: write down your thoughts, allow the grief, forgive yourself and others. Many find solace in turning to a higher power—even if they’re not religious. We’re all imperfect beings. Don’t fight what you are. Accept yourself. Try it, and I promise you, in 99 percent of cases, people sleep like babies again within a few months. Listen—write, don’t repress, accept that not everything in life can be controlled, and your sleep will improve, I promise you.” The therapist slapped both hands on his thighs, stood up, clipboard in hand.

“See you next week, Mr. Durant. And please, try to follow my advice,” he said with a cheerfulness that felt wholly inappropriate for the gravity of the conversation, almost hurriedly ushering me out.

"Pathetic waste of money,” I thought to myself as I crumpled the slip with the therapist’s number—given to me by a colleague.

The days keep getting longer, and I keep growing more tired. Since Susan left me, it feels like I’ve been trapped in a constant state of distortion. Everything flows around me like a current I can’t break free from. Rapids devouring my self, washing my thoughts and soul away in their relentless pull, dragging everything along with them. Like threads of who I am being pulled from me until only something meaningless remains. I can’t see clearly anymore—everything is blurred, distorted.

Everyone regrets something eventually. Regret is like a plague no one truly escapes. The more you try to outrun it, the more violently it returns and devours you from the inside out. In my case, the source of my regret is my wife. I wish I could’ve spoken to her just a little more. It all happened so fast, and I never got the chance to say the words that might have eased the weight pressing down on me day after day. It’s hard to think clearly—everything slips through my mind, swept away by the same unrelenting current I can’t stop.

I knew exactly what to expect. I know what haunts me—I just don’t know what to do about it. He can’t help me. Not really. But I thought maybe, just maybe, he could help me sleep a little better.

“Fucking fraud," still echoed in my head as I walked down the street.

The visit to the therapist hadn’t been what I had hoped. If you don’t sleep, the body begins to die. Everything blurs, turns translucent. It’s like I’m dissolving. But I can’t completely give up—I have responsibilities that allow me no choice but to go on. So I drag what’s left of myself through the fires that burn away my hope. As I walked down the city streets, I caught threads of memory from the tangle of my thoughts. The longer I stared at the trees crowned in rich, green leaves, I could almost smell the scents of spring Susan had loved so dearly.

I used to come here with Susan often. Sometimes, some god I don’t know grants me a fleeting glimpse of what was. To remember what I’ve lost. To mock me—or maybe to keep me from giving up. Maybe to show me it could come back. I don’t know. But either way, I don’t want these glimpses to stop. I’ve walked these streets with her when they were filled with life—not death and decay. Now, all I smell is burnt ash crawling into my nose, polluting everything. No matter what I do, that scent won’t leave me—just like the dreams that steal the rest I so desperately need, burning it away before my very eyes.

One day I’ll find her. I’ll bring her back. I know if I could just find her, everything would be okay again. The missing piece in a puzzle that can’t be looked at without it.

“She just needs time,” I told myself—but repeating it did little to ease the pain.

The closer I got to my destination, the stronger the feeling of wrongness became. I’m ashamed to admit it, and I know it’s objectively wrong, but I can’t change it. I’m sorry, and I feel guilty, but I can’t help it. Treacherous hands twisted in my gut as I knelt and wrapped my arms around my son. The name I had wanted to give a child had already been taken once. Scott was my second-born. I hadn’t seen Nathan, my first son, in years. Susan had taken him when she left me. Scott’s birth had complications—Susan nearly died. She was always sensitive, too fragile for most things in this world, but I made her whole. She couldn’t cope with how close she had come to death and left shortly after without a word, taking Nathan with her. It’s been almost five years now, and I’m alone with my second son, who only drags me deeper into the pit of suffering. It gnaws at my soul, and I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but the truth is—I think it’s his fault she left. Even if it wasn’t.

It’s hard to admit, but I’m afraid of him. He’s not what a child should be. I stared at the pale creature beside me, holding my hand as we walked down the street. In those black eyes, something hid—something I couldn’t see. An intent I couldn’t place. Something evil. Like a demon in disguise. I can’t show it, though. And even though it’s difficult, I could never forgive myself if I was wrong about him. I feel guilty—but I can’t honestly say I love him.

Lately, things have been disappearing in the house. I find objects in places I never put them, places Scott couldn’t reach. Outside it wasn’t cold, but not warm either—just enough to deepen the sensation of dissolution. We walked the familiar path home together. A home that now felt like a cage. It had once been a place of warmth and joy. Now only the husk remained. A two-story white house in a good location—I could have sold it for a decent price. But hope—hope for Susan’s return and all the memories—kept me rooted. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a small kitchen, a modest living room with access to the terrace, even a basement and an attic—all wrapped in white ash, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. I couldn’t have asked for more. Susan got along well with the neighbors, we had a little garden and an elevated terrace behind the house that was perfect for a child. A small forest bordered the yard, hidden behind a fence, offering privacy and peace. The scent of blossoms and the birdsong would turn the place into paradise in spring. I’d even talked to the forest’s owner about buying the land. But that dream disappeared with Susan.

The house was dark when I opened the door. Scott ran inside as I paused on the threshold. I stood atop the words, “La chaleur du foyer est le vrai bonheur.” “True happiness is the warmth of home,” or something like that. Susan had carved it into the stone threshold herself. It’s the only thing about the house I still liked. A coldness I can hardly describe washes over me every time I enter. A wrongness. A heaviness in the dark floors and thick walls. I brushed my fingers over the doorframe and closed the door behind me with the sound of a cell locking shut.

Exhausted, I stepped onto the terrace to wait while Scott played outside. The thought that he was only pretending had taken root in my mind, and not even sleep deprivation could push it out. He often says strange things—a child his age shouldn’t. They frighten me, make me feel vulnerable. His words send shivers of panic through every pore as I try to stay calm. His teacher said he was unusually quiet, like he was just waiting—waiting for me, not playing, not drawing, not creating like other children. The words he said to me a few days ago still echo in my mind when I look at him: He said he had been playing hide and seek with a boy named Nathan. That the boy was too shy to talk to me and was hiding among the trees in the woods. I don’t know how a child his age could even know his brother’s name. I don’t believe it’s just an imaginary friend. Or something he overheard. So few people know my story—there’s no way Scott could have just picked it up. I even searched the entire damn forest once. But… nothing.

Since that day, I sit on the terrace, watching Scott play, trying to rid myself of the dread his words left behind. The black coffee in front of me no longer woke me, and I struggled to keep my eyes open. “Flames... flames from hell,” echoed again and again in my head as I closed my eyes and rubbed them. The child sat, playing by himself. Whispering something. Everything went still as I noticed. I tensed, focused, trying to catch the words. But when he saw how intensely I stared—like someone staring death in the face—he stopped abruptly and pretended nothing had happened. I swallowed, tightening my grip around the steel mug in my hands. Darkness slowly devoured the day’s dim light, and the house grew heavier with dread. I already knew another agonizing, sleepless night was coming.

I stood in front of the mirror in what was meant to be Scott’s bedroom. Scott slept in Nathan’s old room now—something that unsettled me, but I had no real reason to stop him. I slept in the room intended for Scott. I just couldn’t sleep in the bed I once shared with my wife. The fourth bedroom downstairs had become an office, so there was nowhere else to go. Dead, broken eyes stared back at me in the mirror. Strands of thinning hair clung to the folds time had etched into my face. Night pressed into the house with a suffocating weight I couldn’t have imagined years ago. The blackness outside, the silence, the pounding in my head—all of it conspired to keep sleep at bay.

I had lost all sense of time and space, lying in bed for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling. The soft ticking of a small alarm clock was the only constant reminding me I hadn’t disappeared into nothingness. And then I heard it. A whisper. Soft, slow, but audible, drifting through the house’s halls. I froze. My breath caught as I tried to make out the words. Cold sweat broke over me, and a sharp fear ignited deep inside. I rose slowly, silently from the bed and crept to the door. Gently, so as not to make a sound, I pressed the handle down.

The hallway was swallowed by darkness. I groped along the walls, moving slowly toward the source of the whisper, closer to my son’s room.

Without warning, the light snapped on. The hallway lit up. My heart stopped. I flinched violently. The light blinded me for a second. The whispering hadn’t stopped—I was now standing in front of what was once Nathan’s room. The voice repeated the same line again and again.

“You shall burn, you shall boil, you shall bleed, you shall suffer.” “You shall burn, you shall boil, you shall bleed, you shall suffer.” “You shall burn, you shall boil, you shall bleed, you shall suffer.”

My hands trembled over the doorknob. I stood still for a moment, breathing softly. Cold ran up my spine. Helplessness shot like venom through my veins. I clenched one trembling hand into a fist and opened the door.

The child slept. The whispering vanished the moment the door opened. A silence like death hung over the house like a thick shroud. I stood paralyzed in the room of the creature I was supposed to call my flesh and blood. I was lost, unsure what to do. My temples pounded with blood, and I stumbled back a step. That night, there would be no peace.

I returned to the room meant for the demon, always under the watchful eye of the pain that seemed to follow me. I locked the door behind me and sat on the sweat-soaked bed. Panic and paranoia kept me awake, though my body longed for sleep more than anything.

With both hands clasped behind my head, I sat hunched over on the bed, and a single tear ran down my cheek, mingling with the sweat on my face. The whispering had returned, and the words circled like tiny demons around my head, tormenting and torturing me.

I didn’t sleep that night and remained on the bed the entire time, which felt like a lifetime, plagued and tortured by the endlessly echoing words. Eventually, the light of day drove away the whispering, and I went to the bathroom to wash up and take the child to kindergarten. Scott sat in the kitchen eating a piece of bread with strawberry jam, which he had smeared all over half his face. I didn’t really talk to him, and after dropping him off, I called my employer to let him know I wouldn’t be coming in today. My boss was aware of my situation and had told me to take time off whenever I couldn’t make it. I felt nauseous and staggered slightly as I walked. My eyes ached nearly as much as my head, and my limbs were limp and drained from chronic sleep deprivation. Under the gaze of something I couldn’t see, I wandered restlessly through the house until I made the decision to look for my observer.

I dug out an old flashlight from some drawer and searched every single room, rummaged through closets and drawers, went through the kid’s belongings, and turned the whole house upside down. After finding no answers in the attic, my body slowly carried me toward the basement. It was a small basement, separated by a door. Nothing more than a narrow staircase leading to a little room where the boiler and a few pipes lined the walls. As I stood before the door, a strange sense of satisfaction overcame me. It felt like I would find the culprit or the source of my feeling of being watched down there. I slowly descended the narrow stairs, mentally preparing for whatever might await me—but… nothing. I stood there, lost, as clueless as ever, and let the flashlight drop to my side. Looking up, I noticed a black smudge near the ceiling. It looked charred, but it was nothing of significance. Nothing at all. The feeling of satisfaction vanished, and the flashlight shattered into a thousand pieces as I hurled it in fury. I clutched my forehead in frustration and stormed back upstairs.

Not long after, I had scoured the entire cursed patch of forest, yet found nothing that might have brought me relief. Desperate, driven to uncover the cause whose destruction might finally let me sleep, I ran through the underbrush until I found myself standing in the patch of lawn that now felt like my prison. It was time to bring the child back into the darkness with me. The roads blurred, swept away by something I could not stop.

When I found myself again that evening in the suffocating room, faced with the cold reflection of myself, I had long since sunk into the blackness. Sweat now once again ran down my body, and I trembled as if freezing. I didn’t know what time it was—time seemed to be sucked away like everything I had ever been or ever would be. I froze and listened to the sudden sound I heard. The sound of bare feet moving toward me across the floorboards. I saw the light creeping under the crack in my door. The motion sensor had been triggered, and I saw the silhouette’s shadow standing just a few feet away from me.

The doorknob turned slowly—it wanted to come in—but I had locked the door, as I always did. I sat on the floor, both arms pressed against the wall behind me, trying to push myself as far away from the door as possible.

“Dad? I had a nightmare. Can I come in?” said the demon’s voice.

I sat motionless on the floor, my heart pounding against the inside of my chest. I breathed heavily but tried to control it, not to make any noise. For a brief moment, I felt the impulse to get up and open the door. But it faded as the child continued.

“I dreamed that claws tore open her belly. Red, sharp claws ripped Mom’s stomach apart and dragged her into hell, Dad. Everything was burning, and there was blood everywhere. She’ll be there forever, Dad. Dad? Are you there, Dad? Can you hear me? Can you see me?” I could barely breathe now and stared wide-eyed into the darkness. The strip of light disappeared, and I sat for an indeterminate time in the darkness of my mind, enduring as my body was claimed and my soul torn apart.

When I awoke, the morning light felt like a balm for the pain. I rose from the hard floor where I had been lying and felt my body resent me for it. I am lost in whatever is carrying me away, and no matter where I look, there are only endless expanses from which I will never escape. The gentle wind felt good as it brushed against my half-dead face, seeming to carry away a bit of the decay. I walked beside Scott, who ran circles around my legs. If I still had the ability to smile, this might have been the moment I would have done so. It smelled of freshly cut grass, and despite the pain in my body, I felt a little lighter than usual. The contrast between decay and life had never struck me as deeply as it did in that spring unfolding before my eyes. The feeling from the night before had left a bitter aftertaste, but it had been pushed aside.

After dropping off Scott, I heard a voice—its sound a faded memory, one I never thought I’d hear again. A sound from another time twisted the lines in my face into painful knots.

“Stephen! Is that you?” someone called from a little way off.

“How long has it been?” she said joyfully.

“Kate?” I asked, as if I couldn’t believe it myself.

“It must have been almost a decade. How are you?” she said.

I didn’t know what I said—something automatic from my subconscious. I didn’t want to, but she convinced me to have coffee with her. I didn’t want to go into the dead town, so I went into the dead house I called home. Maybe not better—but more familiar. She followed me to the gray terrace and sat across from me.

“How have you been? How are you coping with… well… everything? I’m so sorry about what happened. Susan and… you know. I won’t pretend I understand how you feel, but I can kind of relate—because of my dad’s death, you know? I just want to say I know what it’s like to lose someone too soon. Are you doing any better now?” she asked with a gentle voice.

“Sure. What brings you to town? I thought you moved to California,” I replied.

“Yes, I did. I’m visiting my mother. I don’t want her to be alone for too long. You look… tired. Are you really okay?” she asked carefully, a bit of concern in her voice.

“Perfect,” I answered quickly.

“It must be tough for little Nathan. How’s he doing?” she asked with a tone I couldn’t quite place.

“What?” I said in confusion, rubbing my throbbing head with two fingers.

“Well, he’s doing fine. I guess I just hope I’ll see Susan again soon. Then both he and I will be better. Yes,” I said with my head slightly bowed, almost to myself.

“Well… I hope that won’t be for a while, right?” she said, slightly confused, with a bitter undertone.

“What? What are you talking about, Kate?” I responded a bit too loudly.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Us… we’ve been over for a long time. Don’t get your hopes up!” I said, and I felt rage rising through my bones.

As the words left my mouth, I stood up abruptly, slammed my hands on the table, knocking over the chair behind me, and spilling coffee from the cup on the table.

“That’s not what I meant. You know that. I just mean… I wish you the best, Stephen. Please calm down,” she said, slightly startled, her voice trying to soothe. I noticed Kate getting uneasy, but I didn’t care.

“You think I’d leave her for YOU if I had the chance again?” I asked, nearly laughing, certain she knew there was only one right answer.

“When I find her, I’ll convince her to come back. Get my son back. GET MY LIFE BACK. AND YOU WON’T CHANGE THAT, KATE!” I shouted at her.

“What are you talking about, Stephen?!” she cried out, horrified.

Her face turned pale, and I saw her starting to cry.

“Stephen… the child is dead. He’s been dead for a long time. Susan died during childbirth, and the baby suffocated inside her. Don’t you remember that? God, Stephen…” she said, sobbing, covering her mouth with her hand, her voice trembling.

I was alone. My eyes turned gray, and I went blind. Flames consumed me, devouring everything around me. I could do nothing but endure it, and the fate I had long seen through a wall of mist became my reality.