V - Between Sleeping and Waking

He can't remember how he lost control, even his dream doesn't tell
him that. The details remain blurred, lost somewhere in the recesses of
his mind. He supposes his subconscious has allowed amnesia to take
over, blocking out events he can't comprehend and doesn't want to deal
with. He hasn't been back to work since, confined instead to his house,
mostly the bedroom and kitchen, where he drinks to break up a sleep he
wants desperately to avoid for the horrors it inevitably holds. How
long has it been? He is not sure even of that, how long it has been
since the accident occurred. The moments before the crash sometimes
come to him in flashback, snippets of information that he tries to grab
and hold, but they invariably slip away the more he reaches for
them.

He thinks it was somehow connected to the girl, that he and Louise were
arguing. He can see her face before and after it happened. Contorted
with anger one minute, lifeless and bloody the next. He can hear a
voice, hers, inside his head, but the words aren't clear. He pours
another drink to drown out the noise, and for a minute it works so that
all he can see is the kitchen worktop he is sitting at, where the now
empty glass rests between his hands. He is feeling tired again and
considers going back to bed. One more drink and he walks up the stairs.
In the bedroom he hears Louise stir for a moment, her leg pushes
against the sheets, but she remains on her side. He ties his pyjama
trousers a little tighter and tentatively slips back into bed. Within
minutes he is asleep.

Samuel Thorn awoke the same way he always did, with a jerk and clasping
at his stomach as a sharp pain went searing through it. He felt a warm
droplet of liquid roll down the side of his face and was relieved to
find it was sweat and not blood when he wiped it away. His wife never
moved once before, during, or after his swift return back into
consciousness, but just lay there, her back to him, undisturbed. He'd
had the dream again.

Louise had called him a monster for what he had done. To exploit and
take advantage of a child. But she had been no child, far from it. It
was he who had been regressed back to being a youth, and she who had
assumed the dominant role. She had known what she was doing from the
start. The time when he had returned to the house from a party he and
Louise were at because he had forgotten his reading glasses and they
were playing a game whereby he had needed them. It wasn't he who had
left the bathroom door open so that when he passed he could see inside,
her youthful shoulder glistening with water, one peach breast rising
through the bubbles. And in the car driving her home, it wasn't his
hand reaching out for her leg, his voice asking her to touch him, his
head lowered into her groin.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness in the bedroom.
Everything was the same as it always was, he was on the right side of
the bed while Louise was on the left, facing away from him, always
facing away. He considered turning the bedside lamp on but thought
better of it, he didn't want to wake her. Instead he swung his legs out
from under the covers and walked over to the door. He took one last
look at his wife, her breathing heavy as she slept, before heading to
the bathroom. He couldn't remember when he had first had the dream, but
it was always the same, and he always woke up before it reached its
conclusion. He was always sweating too, despite having turned the air
conditioning to full since the first time.

It had all started with the car. Or had it been the woman? Chickens and
eggs. No, the woman had come first. He shouldn't even really say woman,
she'd been a girl and he'd been a fool. She had been their babysitter
for over a year and through her he had discovered something he thought
he had lost a long time ago. Excitement, and a renewed feeling of being
alive. So he'd bought the car. No carnal act had ever been entered into
before then, but she had made him realise that all was not lost.
Suddenly he wanted to re-experience things from his youth, he had taken
to drinking beer straight from the bottle again, had joined a gym,
traded in the estate for a sports car.

But he had been married, and he had been a fool to fall for this girl,
who, when it was over, had looked at him with disgust, had told her
parents what he had done. Louise had stood by him in body, holding his
hand as the accusations flew and even when their friends started
looking at them in a different way. Yet he had been moved into the
spare room, and had stayed there even long after the girl had dropped
the charges and it became apparent she was no novice in matters such as
these. It had taken nearly two years for him to occupy the same bed as
his wife again, although her back told him he was still not entirely
welcome.

He is in the hospital, lying on his back in a darkened room. He can
only open one eye as the rest of his face is heavily bandaged. He tries
to turn to look at his surroundings, but his neck is held in place so
that all he can see is the ceiling. Through the darkness he sees his
wife's face looking down on him. He knows she is no nearer to forgiving
him for what happened with the girl. But still he takes hope from the
knowledge that they have had their problems before and have always
worked them out. At first it was the house, the upheaval, the new job.
Louise hadn't wanted to move to where they now lived, it was far away
from her parents and her friends. However, after weeks of discussions
and sometimes heated arguments, she had given in and even started to
adapt and accept. She had forgiven him then, come around to his way of
thinking. All for love, she had said. It will take time, he knows that.
It took time to get back into their bed, but it happened. One day she
will sleep facing him again, her arm across his chest. Her face on the
ceiling gives nothing away, but he will keep on trying.

After filling the wash basin with cold water, he splashed his face to
try and cool down. He looked into the mirror and saw the scar on his
temple, running down the right hand side of his face almost past his
ear. The doctors had done an amazing job of reconstructing his jaw
after the accident, but they hadn't been able to eliminate all traces
that it had happened. Just as he had tried, and in many ways failed, to
move on, the scar was a physical reminder in case he ever succeeded in
mentally blocking out the events. She certainly would never let him
forget, never forgive. Her back was as definite a rejection as he could
ever receive, a wall between them, cold and impenetrable.

Samuel let the water out of the basin and made his way downstairs. He
wasn't sure if he wanted a drink, but he made one anyway, pouring
whisky over some ice in the kitchen. Bits of the dream began to creep
into his head again and he drank in short, sharp bursts, trying to
steady himself, or at least block the memory out. It never worked
though, and the nightmare visions flashed at him one by one. The car.
The corner. The wall. Her screams and then her face, crushed and blood
spattered while her neck rested limply against the dashboard. He put
his hands to his eyes, trying to block it out, but it was all still
there, a horrific slideshow replaying over and over in his head. He
poured another drink and finished it in one, grateful when the heat in
his throat momentarily took his thoughts away from the screams in his
head.

He snaps awake with a jerk, clasping his stomach as a sharp pain goes
searing through it. He runs his hand over his forehead and when he
looks at it again, there is blood on his fingers. There is blood all
over the bed and he whips the sheets from him to see his mangled legs
and blood covered torso. He looks at Louise lying beside him and sees
her head lolling limply from her neck, white bone protruding gleaming
from the back. Then he starts screaming.

His eyes open suddenly and he sits up in bed, gasping for air. It is
silent in the room, but his scream still rings in his ears. He thrusts
aside the sheets to see his legs are exactly as they should be. Louise
murmurs something next to him and when he looks at her she is sleeping
as usual, undisturbed. He can still see the injuries, the blood, the
bone, vividly in his head, but they are not there in front of his eyes
anymore.

He is at home, getting ready to go out. They are going to her mother's
house. For once they are going without Jane and he is worried without
his daughter there to shield him, her parents will not be as polite as
they have been before. Dismissive yes, but never aggressive. Louise
tells him not to be stupid as she puts her earrings in in front of the
bedroom mirror. But once in the car her mood changes, as it often does.
After all, it is the scene of the crime, the place where he betrayed
her. Don't be so pathetic, she says when he says if anything happens he
is coming straight back home. You've made your bed, she says. It was a
long time ago. It doesn't mean anything anymore, he says. She is silent
as they pull off the motorway and into the small country lanes that are
resplendent in the area. But it is a tense silence, full of pent up
anger that she cannot hold for long. Don't go blaming my parents or
anyone else for your faults, she says. Don't try and shift your guilt
onto anyone else, you deserve everything you get. If it wasn't for
Jane. This strikes a chord in him. What? If it wasn't for Jane, then
what? he says, raising his voice, staring directly into her eyes,
hatred seeping through into both of them. Watch the road! she
screams.

When he first bought the car she had wanted to drive it, but he had
laughed her suggestions off, reminding her of her lack of prowess
behind the wheel. After everything had happened she barely wanted to
set foot in the thing, even told him to sell it, but somehow, again, he
had managed to change her mind. He wonders if it would have been
different if she had been driving, if he had just let her drive it one
time. It might have empowered her again, to take her anger out on the
accelerator, feel the power at her hands and feet, feel as though she
was in some way in control of the situation. But he had driven, and he
had lost control. He goes back to the bathroom, washes his face again.
When he looks up his wife's face is in the mirror, over his shoulder.
He is not shocked anymore, visions of her have followed him around ever
since it happened.

It wasn't even raining, or dark, or foggy. His foot was probably
pushing harder on the accelerator than usual, tensed up as she shouted
at him, threatened him. Then the wall had been there, not even giving
him time to turn, his hands frozen with fear. He remembers saying
something to her, one last remark. She always had the last word, even
when he ultimately won the battle there was always one final aside from
her. But he had said something that day, something that frightened him.
His subconscious won't allow him to remember, her screams always drown
out the words. He lets the water run from the basin and stares as it
winds down the plughole, his eyes captivated by the swirling liquid. He
doesn't remember being taken from the car. The last memory he has
before it all becomes void is her face, glass protruding from the
myriad cuts like spider webs, her neck limply resting against the
dashboard. Then the heat. He had still been conscious when the fire
started. He turns the tap again as sweat breaks out on his forehead,
but even though he splashes himself again and again, the heat is still
there. He is burning up, despite the water, despite the air
conditioning.

You can't go on blaming me forever. The words come back to him
suddenly, his swansong, the one time he got in the final word before
everything went black, and before everything went red. He looks up into
the mirror and sees strips of flesh hanging from his face, bone visible
through the muscle. He tries to think back to the hospital, the
doctors, the painstaking surgery to put his face back together. But he
cannot remember anything away from this house, his job, his life,
outside. The curtains are always closed, the kitchen always has whisky,
the ice box always has ice, and his wife, Louise, always with her back
toward him, facing away. He rushes into the bedroom and grabs her
shoulder, turns her over. Her open eyes stare back at him, the
surrounding facial muscle burned away, her mouth always smiling, glass
protruding from the myriad cuts all over. Oh Jesus, he said. Oh Jesus
Christ. He lets go and she slumps back into her usual position, facing
away, and the bone is protruding from her neck again, horrifically
white against the darkness all around. He tries to scream but the blood
in his throat prevents him and he flails around helplessly, afraid once
more of eternity.