His voice seemed an echo of someone, somewhere; not here. “You can’t help me,” he says.
His voice is his. I know this. But it is not him. I know this too. The phone is cold and misplaced in my hands. I know I should be there with him. But I am not. I cannot. This I know.
I am safe. It has been more than an hour since I left him. I should know this by now. My body should know this. But, it does not. It will not. Bodies that gather with the fury of taking flight keep moving. Hands and teeth and heart. There is no relief now that I am not there. I have left him alone. Again. He is alone now. I know this, too.
Outside of my car it is consumingly dark; trees and stars and moons are swallowed whole. I know I will be swallowed too. I am sitting in front of the police station. I know this. My car is the only car. It is only me. This I know.
An officer is on his way to him. This is what comes next. This always comes next. I know this. But I do not know who. Have they met him before? Do they know of his illness? Do they know he is a veteran? Have they dealt with us before? Will they draw their weapons? Will they hurt him? Will he hurt them? Do they know this illness is not his fault? Does he know? Will they get him help? Will he go? Will he go? Will he go? These things I do not know. These things, he does not know either. I know that too.
My headlights are on. They carve small spaces into the night. I want to shed this skin and curl myself into their void. I want to tuck myself into their cold. I want to be consumed by their nothingness. I want to be swallowed whole, too.
I know what to say. It is what is always said, “But they can help you. Medication, you need medication. It can help you.” I hear my voice. I am speaking. It is me. I know this. But I am not talking. These do not sound like words. They take no shape. They are forced, futile, and desperately dry. No, I am not talking. I am unraveling. I know this, too.
He has heard it before. How many times have we been here before? “They don’t help me,” he says. These words. How many times has he said them? How many times have I heard them? No, these are not words either. They are tinder to a match. They are pain becoming numb becoming rage. They are screaming until my insides have poured onto the floor. They are hospitals upon hospitals upon hospitals. They are discharges and side glances and worlds shrinking until they are infinitely small. They are familiar faces becoming closed doors. They are life becoming surviving becoming existing. These words are without answer. And they are not his fault. I remind myself. Of this, I remind myself. Again, and again, I remind myself. I know this. I must know this, too.
“Medication makes you feel better about being around me- but it doesn’t help me,” he whispers. “I am still scared, I’m just quiet.” This, I know.
For a moment, time stops. We stop. We are suspended. We are siblings huddled in this borrowed memory; somewhere between then and there. We are space filled only with breath and time. We are together. We are in this together. We are together. Until we are not.
Then we are sirens. And approaching footsteps. And chaos. We are realizations. We are a single scream, “No, no- you lied to me- no.” We are phones and bodies dropping to tile. And then we are silence. We are only silence. I have betrayed him. He knows this now. I am no longer. I know this now, too.
I am no longer words.
I am matter beginning to shift.
I am the hand that holds
having become the hand that points.
I am the wolf and the lamb.
I am a void of the unknown.
I am screams becoming silence.
I am cold space consumed by night.
I am swallowed whole.
This I know.
Julie Lee Woodward is a writer and behavior analyst living in the Greater Boston area. She has a degree in Creative Writing from the University of Massachusetts. You can find her on Instagram @julieleewoodward.
Photo by Gabriele Brancati