The Darkest Hour

Chapter 1 They say the darkest hour is just before the dawn, but what if the dawn never comes? What if you’re lost in perpetual darkness, a netherworld between the living and the dead? Getting out of bed in the morning requires so much effort that on weekends you don’t even bother. And on those days when duty necessitates your presence in the world, all you can think about for the remainder of the day is returning to the sanctuary provided by those cotton sheets and down-filled pillows. I slid slowly into the darkness, unaware of the long, long night ahead. * * * * It was May. I can’t remember the date and even if I could, it wouldn’t make any difference. These types of things don’t just appear. They fester beneath the surface until one day you simply become aware of their existence. They ambush you. By the time they reveal themselves, it’s too late. You are ensnared in the darkness with no flashlight and no map. The morning began as most other mornings did. I woke up. I feel that’s always a good start. But I lingered in bed, reluctant to join the world. At some point my thoughts turned to the painting I was working on. I was pleased with the way it was going and if I finished it in time, I’d be able to include it in my upcoming exhibition at the Delaney Gallery. At once motivated, I climbed out of bed. I padded naked into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. There were croissants on a plate in the refrigerator so I grabbed one and bit the end off. I couldn’t be bothered heating it up. That would take time and now I was up, I was eager to get on with my painting. My studio was a wooden cabin near the north-east corner of my back garden. It was spacious, light, and airy. There were ceiling to floor windows along the front and down one side, and a vast skylight comprised a third of the roof. Behind the cabin was a thicket of trees and shrubs, and approaching it I felt as though I were approaching another world. I had no fear of being caught strolling naked across my back lawn by a curious neighbour since the fences on both sides of my yard were high and hidden by dense shrubbery. I felt completely at ease. I pushed open the door. The room was thick with all the familiar smells of the artist—oil paint, turpentine, linseed oil. There was a paint smeared coat hanging on a hook by the door, but I left it there. It was going to be a scorcher and on days like that I preferred to work in the nude. The canvas—a beach scene I was painting from photographs I’d taken two months earlier—was perched on a large easel in the corner where the two full-length windows met. I looked at it for a minute or two, assessing the work I’d done the previous day. Stepping back, I c****d my head to admire the way I’d executed the froth capping the curling waves. I was also pleased with the way I’d captured the sunlight reflecting on the water. The vast expanse of blue sky overhead bothered me though. It needed something. A seagull, perhaps. I walked across to the wooden table where I kept my large collection of paints and brushes and pulled open one of the drawers. I took out an old biscuit tin with Prince Charles and Princess Diana on the lid and flipped it open. Inside was a mess of photographs, mostly of the sea. The sea was what I painted. I fossicked about until I’d found what I was looking for—seagulls. I twisted off a small piece of Blu-Tack and used it to fix the photos to the window beside the easel. Finally, I was ready to commence painting. Time meant nothing when I was working. I became lost in the brushstrokes. Sometimes I was only vaguely aware of the light fading as the sun began its descent into the western sky. My eyes would automatically adjust to the dimming light and I’d continue painting until it became impossible to see what I was doing. I gave the gull an eye and stepped back to see what the finished sea bird did for the painting as a whole. I was pleased. Not only did it break up the swathe of blue at the top of the picture, but it also balanced the painting and gave it more depth. It was therefore a mystery to me as to why I was suddenly crying. Not sobbing. Crying. Tears were flooding down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop them. I wiped my eyes on the back of my arm then went across to the table to get a tissue. I blew my nose and still the tears fell. Accompanying the tears was a sense of utter sadness. I couldn’t have felt more devastated if my best friend had died, which he hadn’t. I examined my feelings—emptiness, despair, misery. Yet what had brought on this sudden and intense outburst? I was baffled and more than a little alarmed, since this had been occurring now for over a month. I blew my nose again. The tears finally dried, but I was no longer in the mood to paint. I dropped the brushes I’d been using into a jar of turpentine, picked up my empty coffee cup, and returned to the house to run a bath. Immersed in warm water I rested my head against the porcelain edge and closed my eyes. I felt safe and secure. I was back in the womb; protected from the world. I didn’t want to leave the warm water and when it started to cool, I ran more hot water. I lay there, caressed by the liquid, even though my fingers had begun to wrinkle. I could have stayed there all afternoon, but I had to go to the supermarket. I was out of milk and bread. I needed fresh vegetables and I was suddenly in the mood for potato chips. I dried myself and dressed, finger combing my short damp hair in the mirror by the front door. Five minutes later I was on the road. It wasn’t far to the supermarket. A ten-minute drive. I was stopped at a red light when I could feel it coming back, that sense of overwhelming sadness. It rose inside me like an awakening beast, for that’s exactly what it was—a beast. The tears began to flow. I looked at the driver of the car parked beside me. Thank God he wasn’t looking at me. Thank God I had my sunglasses on. The light changed to green and in no time at all I was at the shopping centre, sitting in my parked car blowing my nose, dabbing at my eyes with the same soggy tissue and trying to compose myself. I lifted my sunglasses and checked my eyes in the mirror. Although they were a bit red, they didn’t look too bad. Nevertheless, when I entered the supermarket, I kept my sunglasses on. I didn’t care I was getting strange looks. I couldn’t trust myself not to burst into tears again, since it seemed to be happening more and more frequently. That evening I poured myself a glass of wine and called my friend, Craig. He was a theatre nurse and the only person I ever told my confidences to. “It’s freaking me out,” I said after revealing to him the secret I’d been carrying for the past few weeks. “I have no reason to cry.” “That you know of,” he replied. Craig was a tall, ginger-haired man. He had about him a mild manner. He was masculine and well-built, but there was a gentleness, a softness, about him which made everyone he met fall in love with him. Having said that, we’d only ever been friends. Best buddies. His statement intrigued me. “What do you mean?” “I mean…” he paused. “I mean there could be something from your past that’s coming out now. But whether I’m right or wrong, I think you should see a doctor about it.” “A doctor?” I wasn’t sure how a doctor could help, or even if it was a matter for a medical professional. “What’s a doctor going to do?” “Plenty,” said Craig. “It sounds like you might have depression.” I laughed. I wasn’t laughing at Craig. It wasn’t even a real laugh. It was a reaction to express my discomfort. “I haven’t got anything to be depressed about,” I said somewhat defensively. “I’m probably just tired. I’ve been working pretty hard for the exhibition.” “Could be,” said Craig. “Doubt it though. You don’t usually cry when you’re tired. I’d get it checked out. It’s a chemical imbalance. He’ll probably put you on meds and you’ll be right in no time.” “What are the other symptoms?” I asked. “How long does it last?” “Whoa!” said Craig, chuckling. “I’m not a psychologist. Go and see your doctor. He’ll hook you up with someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.” We chatted for another hour or so. Between his shift-work and me working out in my backyard studio, where all technological distractions were banned, it was sometimes difficult for us to get in touch. We always made the most of any time we managed to get with each other. I considered his advice as I lay in bed that night. Part of me felt it was a waste of time going to the doctor to present him with such flimsy evidence. Crying was hardly a medical condition and I had no other symptoms for him to base any sort of diagnosis on. At a push I could tell him about the accompanying feelings of misery and emptiness, and the tendency towards wanting to be alone. There was the reluctance to get out of bed in the morning. Was that a symptom of anything other than laziness? I rolled over. I’d wait. That’s what I’d do. I’d wait and see what happened over the next few days. Perhaps it would go away as gradually as it had come on.