It Comes in the Night
Sean Moore
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes And wrangle with my reason that persuades me To any other trust but that I am mad
Sometimes, it comes in the night.
Thud.
A tiny little tremor, at first. You might not have even noticed it, if you weren’t looking for it, that is. If you weren’t lying there in the quiet stillness, eyes shut tight, on edge. If you weren’t keeping yourself awake, hoping it won’t come, while waiting for it to inevitably to.
Thud.
That first murmur, that slightest of trembles may pass unnoticed. Perhaps the second one would, too. Nothing more than an imperceptible flutter that you could brush away. It’s just your imagination, getting the best of you. Or maybe it is just a creak of your old house, a shutter that you barely feel.
Thud.
A third time, though, and it can no longer be ignored. This is no knock in the night, this is no imagined pounding. This is real, dead real, and it’s coming from within the fragile cage of your chest.
Thud.
You tense, trying to will the next beat out of existence, to calm your telltale heart, to not let it go any further, to bring it to a halt and finally fall asleep.
Thud.
It’s no use. The tremors hasten, they get louder, more violent, now your whole body seems to shake.
Thud.
You dare not move, you dare not breathe, fearing every motion may provoke this tempest further.
Thud.
What can you do, but hope that this is a dream, some terror of the night that you will soon awaken from in a cold sweat?
Thud.
You know better though. Every passing second, every cell in your body feels too real.
Thud.
Your chest tightens - dare you clutch it? - as that cage of bone and cartilage struggles to keep your heart locked up inside.
Thud.
Time dilates, each quanta stretching endlessly into the endless darkness, into nothingness.
Thud.
Now you need them, the things that go bump in the night, because now between the pounds, in the silence, is when the fear comes.
Thud.
You tense, trying to will another beat into existence, but you know, you know, that you’re dead, gone, you’ve beat your last.
Thud.
And then there is nothing.
Are we dead in between every beat of our hearts?
Do our lives hang from a thread, swinging, a pendulum marking time? Perhaps we live only instantaneously, at each apex, at the moment our hearts beat once more, squeezing life back into us for a moment before we fall back, pulled back down.
Our hearts are our resuscitators, doling out another compression each time we drift away. It’s only a matter of time then, before they give up on us, fed up with the rest of the body’s will not to live.
In that light, maybe it is not so insane to frantically paw for the carotid, hunting for some sort of throbbing proof of life. And maybe it is not so insane to clutch at the chest, searching for the ticking of a telltale heart.
Then again, maybe it is.
I am in the waiting room, walls stained with cheer and bright color. There is an aquarium, with bright little fish darting in between the spires and gates of a submerged castle. There are coloring books, and crayons, and building blocks, and half chewed-on toys.
This is not a place for me.
This is where mothers and fathers bring their children in the dead of the night for real emergencies. It is not for young men with bloodshot eyes and health problems they have made up. It is not for desperate souls who stumble into the reception, half-sprinting, half-drifting aimlessly from their house. It is not for a place for people who think, who believe, that they are already dead.
I am escorted down pastel corridors, past exam rooms where wide-eyed teddy bears and nail-biting parents trade shifts watching over children lying still in beds built for bodies much bigger than them. I’m taken to a room of my own, where the bed is a much less comical fit, and hooked up to machines, humming workers that blip and whir in tune to my body. At first, they struggle to keep up with the beat my heart drums up. My mind has so convinced my heart that it has stopped that it now races, desperate to prove the supposed rational agent within me that it is wrong, dead wrong.
Eventually, my mind realizes that these machines are watching over me, and smart, caring nurses are watching over them. Minutes pass by, and the beeps slow. For the first time, there is calm, there is relief, and my eyes close out of exhaustion, rather than fear.
A little while longer, and I am woken up, gently. Soft voices explain, trying their best to soothe, that there is nothing wrong, that everything is fine, and there is nothing to worry about.
If only it were true.
Every check-up I receive goes the same way, some variant of what’s meant to be complimentary small talk.
“What a great pulse you have!” “Well, you must be an athlete!” “Your heart is in excellent shape.”
It’s no comfort, it’s no use. I know better than to believe it, because I’ve been through the nights when it comes.
There’s a ticking time bomb within me, and it’s only a matter of time before it goes off.
But is it my heart, or my head?