The Darkroom ✔️

5

As he entered the bedroom, he felt her eyes on him, and this time, they were on him. Her eyes met his as he stepped up to the photograph. He lifted the screwdriver and began to dismount the frame. With each turn of the screws, the ache in his arm grew and The Spot, now more of a vast darkness over his form, also grew.

The first screw twisted out, dropping into his open palm.

'One screw down.'

His heart raced. His arm throbbed and his back burned. Worst of all, however, was the pain in his shoulder, groping at his neck and chest. He turned his hand upside down and let the screw drop to the floor, then moved on to the next corner of the frame.

Sweat broke on his forehead, dripping into his eyes, as the screw began to loosen. He could taste the salt in his mouth. Worst of all, however, he could see Ellen's accusatory eyes. Her smile was gone once again; now only his picture self's half smile, forced as it was, remained. Dane could not meet Ellen's eyes.

He shifted his gaze and they locked on the large black and white eyes of an acid-scarred face – the panoramic of a tortured woman. She had died shortly after he took that photo. This was in the spring of 2007.

Another screw fell to the floor. The pain in Dane's back was now an all out fire. His left arm jerked uncontrollably and jolts of pain shot from his shoulder. That arm was useless now. He would have to work the remaining screws with his right arm alone.

'On to the next screw,' he thought, and laughed. 'The next screw! How do you like that Ellen!?' And there had been more after her. How many women had he slept with since then? She wasn't his teacher. She wasn't his first. She was just a fling. 'A fling, Ellen! Nothing more!'

Of course, she had been the strongest of them, hadn't she? Not just physically, but emotionally. She had not been apt to put up with his bullshit. She had challenged him. She had tried to make him a better man. She had loved him.

The third screw was half way out when his neck began to tense. His chest was pounding now, in rhythm with his arm and the pain was excruciating. His hair was wet with sweat, and it bled through his undershirt.

"You're not winning this one," he shouted; and then he laughed some more. Could one feel sanity slipping away? Dane was pretty sure that they could; in fact he was certain this is what it felt like – hot, wet and angry with a sprinkle of disorientation.

The third screw fell to the floor, bouncing across the wood. Suddenly the frame swung upside down, held now only by the bottom right screw - the final screw.

As the picture swung there, suspended by that one tiny point, Dane could see Ellen still staring at him, but now she was laughing, too. She hung there, upside down, her hair no longer locked in an immortal breeze but snapping with new vitality, new life. The breeze blew again. It whipped her blouse, which now threatened to fall over her face as gravity pulled it down exposing her midriff and her soft skin.

How many nights had he pressed up against that skin, flesh to flesh, their sweat mingling in the hot desert summer?

His own hair lifted as the breeze filled his New York loft. Yes, the breeze was definitely blowing again. He could feel the sand catching on his sweaty brow, turning to specks of mud and dirt. And the heat – it had been five years since he had felt the heat of Baghdad, but it was rising here this night.

He lifted his right arm and began turning the final screw. His left arm hung at his side, and – could it be... yes – the arm itself was turning black. A tiny spot showed in the crook opposite of his elbow. At first it appeared dark like an ink stain, but then he knew what it was: the tumor began forcing its way out and pushing through his skin.

The cancer was growing.

Suddenly the final screw locked. He turned and turned, but the Phillips head had stripped out the metal leaving a round hole where the fitted grooves once were. The frame hung there, with Ellen laughing as the breeze built with tumultuous force.

He couldn't let her win. Dane grabbed the side of the frame with his remaining good arm and yanked back with all the strength that he could muster. The screw jerked briefly from the drywall, but it was locked tight in its plastic anchor. Again he pulled with little effect.

'One more time.' He breathed in and gathered all of his strength, then yanked back, letting his feet slip out from under him and allowing gravity to pull him, and the frame, down.

A loud snap sounded as the screw and anchor twisted and broke, pulling drywall with it. Dane fell back and smacked against the hard floor with a crack of bone and a shattering of glass.

'A rib,' he thought as the pain stabbed into his side; yet this pain was coupled with hundreds of tiny jabs of glass through flesh. He winced, on the verge of tears, but he would not let Ellen see him cry. Plus, the hurt was good – it stole his mind away from the pain growing in his left arm and up his neck and down his chest.

He glanced to the side. The picture frame had fallen glass first and shattered. Even the wood of the frame was split and splintered. Shards of glass stretched out three feet in either direction mingling with the splinters and flecks of drywall.

So far, so good, but now he had to get the picture.