Into the Darkness
I have just one more scene to write before finishing my first novel. I’ve put it off, more than several times, because it is the hardest one. It is one of my ‘stories,’ one of my own ‘Life’ events, and though my character is not me, the story belongs to this character as well. It is one of the hardest, because it is one of the darkest, and, in telling it, I’m am retelling it to myself. Reliving it.
I don’t want to go there.
If I am going to tell ‘Billie’s’ story, though, and tell it rightly, I have to go back, to that time and place, and I don’t know what I will find when I get there. Much like walking through the old forest in darkness, the trees rising up, casting shadows in the faint light of the stars, I fear the things that I cannot see, afraid that I will disturb something that has been asleep, and quiet, in the darkness. That I will ‘bring it back’ with me when I return here, to the present.
That I will bring its darkness with it.
There are people who no longer live in this world in the telling of it, and I do not wish to awaken them, my memories of them, because they’ve been gone from here for so long. Some of them I am glad that I will never see again, and some I have sorely missed in the here and now.
Billie, and her Lover, and their complete and undying Love as well, deserve to have the story told, it is the one that made her, that made them.
Tonight, then, is the night.
I will strike the match and put it to the wick, hold up the lamp, carry it, for them, for us, to light our way as we pass between the trees at the edge, their trunks a ragged wall as we slip between the cracks, to move through the darkness of the telling, and hoping, praying, that we emerge together on the other side, unscathed and with no more than what we entered.
We will go tonight.