Between Octobers

Terminal

Terminal

Fear. Four short letters for something so crippling.

Facing death isn’t the scary part. In the many moments I’ve spent pondering what it must be like to die, I’ve never considered the act more than simply going to sleep. It’s the happening; the potential events leading to it that terrify me. I’d prefer fast and painless—faster than asphyxia or drowning. Once, I choked on a meatball when I was at home all by myself. A complete airway obstruction. I couldn’t breathe and nothing else mattered when that next breath couldn’t come. Inhaling reflexively, I remember the feeling of knocking my abdomen against the counter top until I threw up. I don’t much care for being beaten to death, either, and I’m in no condition to put up much of a fight without risking him. And I will not risk him.

While praying for help, I am crushed by guilt for my trespasses. Mistakes I’ve made flash before me. My erroneous behavior that resulted in the video, my poor judgment, the petty thoughts and jealousies. My fights with Lily and Noah. What would Noah do without me? Neglecting Evan—I had so many chances to tell him and didn’t. I lectured him about honesty and withheld my own truth—which is no different than lying. 

Oh, God, I’m sorry. I need help. I will die someday and when that time comes I’ll be ready, but not tonight, Lord. Please. Not like this. Protect me. Open my eyes to see a way out. Help me think through the confusion. Tell me what to do.

I think over the desperate prayer and realize I’ve neglected the most important part.

This is what I want, but You know better. So, let Your will be done.

I withhold the Amen, knowing I’m nowhere near finished.

When I blink, my lashes no longer press against anything. The blindfold seems to have slipped down over my nose, not all the way, but enough to see. It’s still dark, but there’s a shape to the darkness. A hysterical cry wants to escape, but something tells me I should avoid making unnecessary noise. I can tell through the trace amounts of dim light that filter through the edges I am inside a trunk, but not the kind I thought. It has sharp corners and a lid like a rectangular storage box. Where it has—I have—been stashed, I have no idea, but I know I’m travelling. I feel the twists and turns and hear the constant drone of an engine. There’s also a muffled racket that sounds like it might be… rap music?

With a jolt my smooth ride becomes rough. A jagged pinging noise sounds from below as the swaying motion of turns becomes more frequent, near constant. We must be close to wherever we’re heading. 

As I think it, the motion of the car drags to a halt.

So does my heart. 

Listening intently for any sign of my impending demise, my senses seem to sharpen. There’s a muffled thud that sounds like a door. Silence. Waiting. Everything is dreadfully quiet. I can actually hear the stillness. Even my thoughts are a whisper, barely intelligible over the buzz in my ears. 

The fear of whatever’s coming has me imagining I’m someplace remote, probably a nearby beach or lake.

One of my earliest memories is of my big brother and me sneaking into a neighbor’s swimming pool. He was going to teach me how to dog paddle. I can see little Ronnie, no more than five or six himself—which puts me between two and three—standing neck-deep in the shallow end, urging me into the water. He told me to wade in carefully. I leapt. I remember the terror when my feet couldn’t find the bottom. 

The car’s moving again. My head throbs, repeatedly knocking against the wall of my container. Wherever we’re heading, it isn’t on a paved road.

I try, once again, to loosen my restraints. Beyond self-defense and running, I have no plan. There’s not enough definitive information. 

That day in the pool with Ronnie, I was sure to drown, but the neighbor heard us splashing. He ran outside and pulled me out of the water by my hair. 

While half of me dives into survival mode, the other keeps praying for clear, concise, signs. The constant motion pulls. I think it means we’re slowing again. I nod and press my cheek against the sidewall, working the cloth back up over my eyes, stopping when I can no longer see.

My feet. I’m not sure if they’re bound, but I can’t move them.

Amid the worry, a great sense of clarity comes, blanketing my fear. It says I need to be still. I cannot run, so I must be dead. It feels foolish, the complete opposite of what I want, but I repeat my earlier movements in reverse, settling into my original position. Then, close my eyes under the blindfold and wait. The air is stifling. Sweat beads against my skin. I’m stuck. Until the box is open—and I have to believe it will be—I need to be calm.

God, help me. If I sweat or breathe we’re dead.

Working to control my gasping breaths, I slowly inhale and gradually exhale until my heart rate begins to slow. The familiar pressure in my head ebbs, though the pain of the blow is prominent. I force each muscle group to relax, calling to each individually, willing them to rest. I must look flaccid. 

I hope she doesn’t check for a pulse. There’s no way I can fake that. I take one, concentrated breath and let it out slowly, counting backwards from twenty, determining that when I get to zero I’m going to be calm—no matter what. 

20, 19, 18…

Worst case scenario: we’re dead. My heart breaks at the thought of not seeing my boys grow up, but I can see Solomon and my parents again. Lily will get the boys and the houses. She’ll tell Evan that I loved him until I took my last breath. God is sovereign enough to care for them in my stead. Best case: we make it out together. My arm strokes my pregnant belly. The only acceptable scenario is that we get out together—all or nothing.

The pain subsides a little, though the ride is really bumpy. I can’t tell how far or fast we’re going, only that it’s off road. And towards a spot where I have no help and no control.

Merciful dizziness descends, disconnecting me from my body. I thank God, as my eyes roll into nothing.