Timelocked

It was always present, if only in some distant corner of my mind. It chose the most inopportune moments to materialise in my mind, jarring other thoughts and freezing my body. During conversations or while waiting for a bus, perhaps.
It sometimes sprang at me, causing physical repulsion, a silent gasp and a shiver. Only in minute flashes did this occasionally happen, although they were none less potent that the fiercest nightmare. Other times I would simply find myself thinking of that day, catching myself unawares, and scolding myself for thinking those silly thoughts.

Everyone has secrets. A secret, by nature, seems to always chew up the keeper inside, so that you just have to tell someone, for fear of losing your sanity. I have kept my secret because of this fear for my sanity; people would surely think me as crazy if I divulged this particular secret.
But the time has come for me to release it, it’s toll on my mind has all but wasted away my wits. I have to tell someone, anyone; to exorcise my past experience.

That day, that day.

It all began with a day that would take it’s toll on any man, weighing down the shoulder and clouding the mind. Dread is an emotion I had never felt in such a heightened form as of that morning. Knowing you have a harrowing task ahead of you does nothing to lessen the blow, in fact it seems to increase the magnitude of the daunting feeling. I needed closure, however.
For this reason it was I who had volunteered to go to the house.

As I neared the house, my steps became slower and more precise, as if I were liable to plunge from the curb at any second. Each step seemed to ring out like a judges gavel, reigning down sentence after sentence with vindictive fury. I thought then at that moment that I should have accepted the copious amount of help which had been offered to me.
It was too daunting a task, too taxing for any one person, my rational thoughts began. Silencing them, I remembered I had politely yet firmly declined my family’s invitations of help, and they knew me better than to push the subject.

Traffic cruised by, giving the impression of everyone just getting along in life. They had simple worries to deal with today, and perhaps none at all. Envy crept through me. I felt as if I were trapped in a time-lock vault in a bank, with time literally stopping inside. I could not progress in my life until this task was complete, but I thought myself too weak to master this beast. I needed to move on from grief, so I pressed on still.

Nothing was relevant at the moment, except the task in hand. Working myself into this train of thought had induced a near-hypnosis state, which was good in a way. It left all other thoughts and emotions numb.

Emotions are powerful forces, I knew well enough. It’s a nightmare when these forces become solely negative, inhibiting all other functions of thought. I neither acknowledged the lack of cloud cover or appreciated the warm touch of sunlight on my skin as I drifted towards the house.

The house. Frank’s house.

All of this area was residential, with a corner shop situated conveniently every few streets along the way. It had a friendly, welcoming air to it, this neighbourhood. This touch was lost on me as I glided though, passing trees and flowers I had previously admired. They might as well be gone now, replaced with barren, sterile parking spaces.

Situated in a cul de sac too spacious for just three houses, the house looked unimposing. Yet it loomed ominously as I stepped into the shadow it cast, the morning sun too low yet to rise above the roof. I composed myself as much as my tolerance could afford, ignoring the sadness welling up to my throat. My hands trembled as I fumbled the key into the lock. My heartbeat hammered in my ears, creating a dull roar which muffled out my ragged breathing. I attempted to stem my heart rate, to gain composure once again.

I had entered.

Initiation was the hardest part of any task, I told myself. Soothing thoughts were soon drowned in a sea of uneasiness as I took in my surroundings. The air was still, sounds from the outside world were drowned out as I latched the door closed. No furniture had been moved, no windows had been opened. This last fact was evident from the tinge of staleness in the air. I did not move to open any window.
I was afraid any fresh air would rinse the house of any lingering residues of Frank’s life.

Clinging to the past is what I came here to put an end to, I told myself.
Shaking off compassion I flung open a window, a little more stiffly than I had realised. Checking the interior of the house again, I noted a quietness so foreign to this building. This was always a place of lively conversation, nights in and friendliness. Now it stood as but a shell to it’s past, the silence a grim reminder of change.

Cautiously I began to pick through his belongings, hurtful nostalgia welling up inside each time I laid eyes on some token of his life. It was not the furniture itself which instilled these feelings, but the sprinkling of trinkets lying on shelves and tables, unimposing. A magazine, a cigarette lighter, a watch that had needed fixing for so long it’s technology had become comically dated. A calendar on the opposite wall caught my eye, each month revealing an exotic location Frank swore he’d visit one day. One day in the future. A future full of possibilities, cut short.

The living room was not particularly large, but it opened up from the hallway, and led into a spacious kitchen, which gave the overall impression of one continual room. It took longer than expected to sort the items from just the first room. I had lost my concept of time in here though, lost in memory, and only realised the effect of this when I noticed the sun was much higher in the sky now, casting a glare on everything outside. The interior of the house remained dimmer, as if the change of day were a trivial matter in in this time-locked environment. The owner of this house no longer saw the movements of the sun and moon, and his house obediently followed suit, caught in a twilight forever.

My robotic manner about the house was getting the job done, with two and a half rooms already covered. I had become immune to the wrenching feeling that came with the realisation that I had to throw some possession out.
Sorting through a dead persons belongings you knew so well makes you want to preserve every shred of fibre they were partial to. Blocking out emotion was difficult, and seemed mentally dangerous. But a lot of these possessions had to be sorted, and donated or thrown out. At any rate, I felt weary and stopped to collect my thoughts.

Returning to the living room segment of the stretch of rooms, I collapsed into an over-plush armchair and sighed deeply. I half lay, half sat like this for some time, like a reluctant traveller who must soon leave the fireside for the harsh elements once more. Knowing I would have to start again soon, I prepared my body for action again. Just before I told my eyes to open, I hesitated.

This is the defining moment in my agitation for this day. It started from here, the fear for my sanity. Hiding this day away seemed to be the easiest way to deal it. If no one heard about it, no one would have reason to doubt my sanity. Rational thoughts battled with imaginative ones, until it felt like my brain would leak from my ears with exasperation, in an attempt to flee the battleground. Sleepless nights often followed troubled thoughts. I was vampiric at this stage. Now I am ready to divulge my secret. If I am lying then let my tormented existence be my penance.

Everyone has had this sensation. The feeling of knowing something, with no real explanation for it. The feeling of being watched. I knew as I rested there that I was being watched. Feeling unsettled, the peculiar feeling washed over me like a nauseating gas. Distinctly I felt someone staring at me. There was no presence of anyone in the room; that quiet ability of intuition did not stir in my head.
No, but it felt like someone was watching me, positively leering at me, bending all of their will into a force with which to rouse me from slumber with. It amplified in magnitude as I cautiously stood up and chanced a glance around the room, expecting to see something I wasn’t quite sure of. Some deep instinct told me I already knew what to expect.

He was still here.

I had seen him dead and buried, but I knew he lingered here somehow. Some essence of his being snagged on an outcrop of this world, as it passed along the river of souls and sins. For reasons mortals should not know, his passing was delayed. I could not think of a reason as to how I ascertained this. Where did this flash of knowledge come from?
I could not think, I did not want to. The possible outcomes of these assumptions were both frightening and fascinating. Stress and tiredness were wonderful at inducing these kind of thoughts and behaviours. Hallucinations and fanciful thoughts sometimes occurred under very stressful conditions. Had I not just taken a break, I would be in favour of these rationales.

I seemed to watch my actions now with detachment from my body. My form moved without my consent, but without my objection also. In a daze of confusion, limbs exerted force and blood flowed on, and I was a spectator in the affair. I vaguely remembered ascending the stairs, after having found myself coming-to on the landing. Then it struck me.

The bedroom. His bedroom.

The room where Frank had relinquished his grip on life, after a battle that would wear away the most resilient warrior’s body. I stared forward, but did not move. Now in total control of my body again, I calculated each step with deliberation as I crept closer to the ajar door. Earlier feelings of heavy dread returned, accompanied by the ever foul-tasting tang of fear. The endless possibilities to what I could be in there were fuelled by my ever-present overactive imagination.

The feeling of knowing without knowing how returned, the feeling of an unseen presence radiated from the door. It was as if the door was a magnifying glass, with the source of unseen power being the sun, and me the ant being cruelly exposed to concentrated beams of pure energy.

Fear was enticing bile to my throat, but still I craved to know what lay beyond the magnifying door. Having gotten this far I would be driven mad if I turned away now, always wondering what lay beyond the door that was left ajar.
I already knew though, didn’t I?

As sure as I knew I was being watched, I knew that Frank was in the next room. So many emotions and thoughts overwhelmed me as I stood sentient there, a tug-of-war of sorts ricocheting around in my head. If I went in there, and nothing was there, then I was booking a long stay at either a holiday resort or a psychiatric hospital. If I went in there, and it wasn’t empty, then…

A rush of emotions flooded my head, but they weren’t mine. This cocktail of feelings was an external force, rushing into my head like a benign radiation from something, or someone.
The robotic actions which had helped me get through the sorting downstairs sprang into life again, suddenly jerking my legs forward. My hand reached up and gently pushed the door so it swung open in a quiet arc to reveal the contents of the room.

I had never properly seen the inside of this room, save only when the door was not properly closed. Hence I could not see anything that appeared to be out of the ordinary. The curtains were half-drawn, heightening the gloom that had prevailed throughout the rest of the house. A bed, a dresser, a wardrobe, all common objects in a bedroom.

Frank sat in a chair which had been placed beside his bed, near the head. His smile was complacent, contented. He looked like he was waiting for something, but seemed unsure as to when his quarry would show itself. As he stared at me, I felt the peculiar feeling of being watched ebb away, neutralised as soon as I set eyes on my would-be stalker. A long silence ensued; I was glad of it, for I was incapacitated as I tried to sort the relentless stream of questions, answers, images, fears, possibilities, and rationales in my head. He seemed to understand my naturally shocked state of self; allowing time for digestion of this information. I don’t know how long I remained as such, absorbing the stimuli in front of me.

Then he spoke.

A simple, ordinary informal greeting. Hello, or some such. I was too dazed to hear the word.
Eventually he seemed to grow impatient, and motioned for me to sit down. He looked as if he was preparing to make a speech in front of a large audience, taking slow breaths and clearly concentrating on what he was about to say. A trace of a wheeze was heard as he slowly exhaled, the wheeze punctuated by his dry lips.

There was nothing outstandingly obvious as to his current handicap of life, no external feature which gave away his disposition. His clothes and skin were as usual, perhaps a little vaporous around the fringes, although this lack of visual resolution could surely be attributed to the dimness of the room. His eyes did seem somewhat glazed and distant, however. He looked pointedly at me, but it merely looked as if he were day-dreaming, and just happened to be dreaming in the direction of my person. His eyes betraying no hint of focus in his stare.

I did not know what to think, how to think, where to think.. Was this real, or was this ethereal experience the tail end of some drug-induced fantasy, a result of some unperceived gas leakage? The windows had been closed for some time, a build-up of fumes from something seemed a plausible excuse. Any excuse would do, and my mind was racing against the current of common sense, to invent rational explanations to suit any scenario which even half-crossed my mind.

Even though I knew it was really happening, my rational mind quietly insisted that it could not be so, spinning stories to fool only itself. There seemed to be two trains of thought running in my head simultaneously, nauseating and numbing my thoughts.
I suddenly felt ashamed.

Why would I fear my uncle, one I had spent so much time with? He was a friend who always had a joke, or some humorous story to share. He was family, but a friendship existed between us which outweighed the slight formality found between relatives. Although he was an adult, and I not quite an adult, there was a strong bond present which transcended the gap of age, resulting from our similar personalities.
I had heard many a story from Frank’s youth, some centred around the time when he was about my age. He seemed to have acted in situations as I would now, at my age. We found similar things humorous, often little things which would slip by unnoticed to others’ sense of humour.
He spoke again, and this time I was ready.

“If I had known how much upset I would cause with my death, I would have put it off for another while”.

Apparently his dry wit was not impaired by a simple change of state. I found myself entirely vapid of amusement, feelings of anger flaring up inside of me. He had a nerve. The ice needed no breaking, it had melted as my fear gave way to realisation. Now I could ask him, I could ask all the questions countless people had asked with a sob over the fresh graves of their loved ones. I could put forward questions which asked Why? How? Who? When?
My ideas of getting closure were forgotten in anger now, as I prepared the first question. The one which brought with it the most hurt. It made me realise there was rifts in our friendship, ones which were probably there all along, but me with my foolish naivety failed to acknowledge their existence.

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”

My voice resonated with a tone that sounded harsher than intended. This question had caused a lot of restless nights, and days, for that matter. It highlighted the fact that he chose to keep something very important from me, from the whole family. Now I would know the answer, and could base my resentment on solid ground, as soon as he gave me a proper reason.
I had expected this reason to be flimsy at best, I had hoped it so. I could justly be angry at him then, and not feel guilty later on. With this pre-emptive malice in mind, I was not prepared for his reasons. What a fool I was.

“Put yourself in my shoes, and imagine having to tell everyone. I had a lot of time to deal with the news, but by the time I was ready to tell anyone else, my time had grown fairly short. Imagine the look on someone’s face when you tell them you have weeks to live. Imagine how I would feel having to tell them. I suppose it was a bit selfish, but it was justified. I couldn’t bear to have so much sadness and despair around me. I could just imagine people fussing over me, or weeping for me, or cautiously tiptoeing around me, as if I might drop dead at any moment. I can take care of myself, you know how independent I am.”

I did.

He had run away from home at sixteen, and right up to his death, he had yet to ask his parents for money to support himself. They did pay for his funeral arrangements though, but that, I suppose, was their farewell gift to him.

“I wanted my last days to be normal. The best days of my life were not the ones where I was off on some crackpot adventure, not knowing were I’d turn up or with who. They were a laugh all right, but there’s only so much parties and people to enjoy before you want to settle down. I was comfortable the way I was. The best days of my life were here, among all of you. I could see myself unchanged in thirty years. I had reached where I wanted to be, for the foreseeable future at least”.

He spoke with more fervour now, his carefully planned speech discarded as words flowed freely from his mouth, laced with conviction and heartfelt emotion.

“Why would I want a complete upheaval of this when it took half my life to realise what I even wanted out of life? Telling people I was dying would have irreparably altered the style and pace at which I was living. I would not have had a normal conversation with anyone, because there would have always been this hint of pity or sadness behind their mask of acceptance. I did not want things to change, because I loved how they were so much.”

He had consistently answered all of my questions during his little speech, allowing complete silence on my part. I was breathing heavily in an attempt to flood my brain with oxygen, to stabilise the nausea.

My mind was going into overload, and I felt faint. This was a phenomenal experience crackpot mediums only dream about, and I was going to faint. The very fact that I was accepting that Frank was there suddenly stilled my head. He was there. I was not hallucinating, this was not a symptom of stress or grief. Nor was it a faculty of the subconscious mind, activated in order to give peace of mind.

Then he spoke again.

His voice was filled with sorrowful compassion now, all quiet formality lost from his words. Smoke eddied from his nostrils and the tip of the cigarette he held in his hands. They had killed him once already, so I supposed no further harm could be done. I did wonder though how the very sight of what had killed him did not instil feelings of remorse, or even fear. But his expression remained relatively complacent, given the current conversation.

“There was nothing that could be done by the time I knew, I was too far gone. I had reasons for hiding it, which I have explained to you. All I ask know of you is that you understand these reasons, and maybe even one day forgive me”.

The words resonated in my head. He was asking me for forgiveness.
I felt sick.
Guilt over my words, thoughts and actions welled up in me, causing near-physical repulsion. How could I have been so foolish, so angry, so ignorant to his own needs?

All I had thought about at his funeral was how selfish he had been. A funeral I had nearly missed because grief and anger and stubbornness had won me over. That was a very dark time for me, for everyone. I had felt especially hurt, owing to the fact that we had maintained such a strong friendship over the years, that he had chosen to hide that knowledge from me.

I had been away from home when he had died. Reacquainting with friends I had made the previous Summer. That phone call bearing the news of his death had vaporised all tendrils of euphoria I had been enjoying at the time. I had not felt amiable since.

I was weary of the prolonged silence now, but it was not awkward in nature. Once again he was waiting patiently for me to either say something, or to further digest this impossible situation. Not impossible, incomprehensible though. My eyes watered as my thoughts of guilt and sadness manifested into the physical realm. My head was bowed, weighed down by too many thoughts and too many questions that could not be asked in any language. I chanced a glance up at him, the tears in my eyes that were now aided by gravity flowed freely down my face.

As my composure, and indeed confidence returned, I was urgent to ask many questions. Death is the only mystery of man that cannot be uncovered in life. Something stopped me from asking these questions.

I did not ask what it was like to die, or where people go. Some remnant of unexplained intuition I had felt downstairs still remained. To ask these questions now would be foolish, and pointless. Surely no human could comprehend the workings of forces so out of reach and sight? Once again this information seemed to be just dripping down into my head, with no explainable source.
I resolved to ask him just one question then.

“Did you really think that I hated you?”

His reaction momentarily perplexed me, as I was being serious. He chuckled heartily. I had the feeling that he was in on some great cosmic joke, and I was the butt of it.

“You will know in due time, but do not dwell too long on the things that have been said here. They are liable to make your thoughts ill”.

He spoke as if he possessed some ethereal knowledge as to our existence, and I would only be privy to that knowledge when I too had died.


I woke with a start on the living room armchair. Dusk was quashing the remaining sunlight, giving a dimness to the room, which was gentle on my adjusting vision. As soon as I realised where I was, and what had happened, I panicked.
Earlier, I was certain I was talking to Frank in his bedroom. So how come I cant remember coming downstairs again? I was afraid because I was aware that I could have just had a bizarre psychotic episode, triggered by the strain of being in this house, under these circumstances.
Breathing rapidly and debating whether to return to the room upstairs or not, I paced the hallway. Curiosity prevailed and I gingerly shuffled up each step, careful not to rouse other spirits who may linger here.

The door was as I had first encountered it; slightly ajar. Breathing quicker still, I heard my pulse in my ears, bursting to get out of its confining system of veins and arteries. A sudden flash of déjà vu enveloped me with unnerving nausea as I slowly pushed the door wide open.
The room was unchanged. The chair was empty.
Confused, and drained, I turned to leave. Something caught my attention, somewhat subconsciously. Taking a second to process the stimulus, I was strangely relieved as I realised what made me hesitate.

The acrid scent of stale smoke lingered in the air. I felt relieved and overwhelmed. I was relieved because it had not been a dream. I was overwhelmed because it had not been a dream. Leaving the house after doing considerably less work than intended, I felt at peace, because I had gotten the closure I had came for. It was certainly not gained through any way I could have possibly imagined, but something told me I would not have gotten satisfactory closure through any other means.

Writing this has opened my eyes. I had kept a secret because I was afraid of it, I was afraid of what state my mind was in. Not realising that I had closure all along was the result of repressing the events of that day. A very foolish thing to do, as it caused much mental turmoil and anguish. How had I simply blocked out the truth? Maybe I was a little unbalanced, given the circumstances and events at the time.
I had blocked out the fact that I had closure all along, simply because I was afraid I had gone crazy. The fact that I nearly did drive myself insane seems almost humorous now, in this new light. How could someone be so ignorant to their own thoughts, to what knowledge was already contained in their memory? The countless hours I spent in fear and disbelief are a testament to my stupidity more than anything else. Take example from my mistake, and make sure to only keep a secret when its worth enduring the dilemma of keeping one.


Thanks for reading, I know it's a bit long but I had to include it all, it was too personal for me to omit any of this!