Dirt in The Attic

Every night Mark has the same nightmare. He drives down a winding dark road in a rainstorm. On his left a tree covered hillside speeds by. To his right, a concrete median stands between the road and a plunge down the hill towards the city. Mark's hands are covered in a thin layer of dirt, making his grip on the steering wheel feel slippery and grainy. He's tired, but Mark has swerved down this road a thousand times. He knows the curves like the lines of his hands. His wipers struggle to keep up with the dumping sheets of rain. He lets his mind wander.

In his dream the truck materializes beside him without warning, white light filling his car as a horn sounds and his door is pushed in from the impact. The shock travels down his left side, shattering his arm, ribs, and leg. The car is shoved off the road and into the concrete meridian with a wrenching explosion of the truck's horn and metal tearing. In real-life Mark had been knocked unconscious instantly when the truck hit him but in his dream he stays awake, drifting strangely above his body as if his soul is being pulled upward.

"No!" He shouts in his dream. "I don't want to die!" He rages as he is pulled away from his broken body. Then he wakes up.

He awakes in a room lit with pale morning sun. His body aches with the dull pain of recovery. His childhood bedroom looks exactly like it did when he left at 22. Memories ooze from the posters on the walls, the figures and photos on his desk, and the bed he sleeps in.

His left arm and leg are always sore first-thing in the morning. With a groan he stretches his arm and slowly twirls his wrist, wincing as it protests with a zap of pain. He throws off his sheets and slowly sits up. When he stretches most of his joint's pop in gratitude. The room hasn't grown up, but he has. He gropes under the bed for his cane and shakily stands up. He stretches his leg in and out to get it loose enough for walking. He hobbles to the bathroom using his cane and the wall.

Every day he notices another sign of age. A gray hair among his brown – and receding – brow line, or in his beard. An extra wrinkle poking across his face or from his eyes. He's the thinnest he's ever been in his life, but that's mostly because of the accident. Sometimes when he wakes up he forgets for a moment and becomes 22 in his mind again. Then he looks in the mirror and sees a 32-year-old man who can't help but wonder where the time went.

All of this happens in the span of 9 or 10 minutes every morning, then Mark gets to work.

"Today I'm doing the attic." He tells his mom over the phone while making breakfast. Two eggs and some bacon. The morning sun shines through the kitchen windows and warms his sore side. He listens to something his mom says on the other line. It's almost midnight for her where she is.

"I'll be okay!" He chuckles. "I don't even need my cane after the morning. By noon I can walk fine on my own. Yes. Yes, I know. I'll be careful. If it looks like it's too much I'll drop it and go sweep the basement." Again, he thinks while his mom replies. He's been avoiding the attic.

"It's going to be fine. If anything happens I'll call you. Okay mom, goodnight. Yes, I love you too. Goodnight Dad." He hangs the call up and looks out at the morning sun.

After breakfast Mark showers and trims his beard. He hums music or plays it out loud, and slowly gains his mobility as the hours go on and the winter sun rises higher in the sky. By 1, he's ready to face the attic.

"Alright, let's see what we're dealing with." He says to no one as he opens his closet door. The attic entrance is a small trapdoor set above him. He opens it, and it swings down. A thin ladder unfolds after it and Mark helps it to the carpet, staggering slightly in surprise at how fast the ladder drops. He gets it straightened, testing where it folds to make sure it will stay. He's almost as tall as the ladder, which is a relief because he'll only have to travel 2 rungs to get a look into the space. Then he looks up at the black hole above.