Event Horizon

He watched his wife as she left the bed, grabbing her favorite pillow and the white blanket he purchased from Wal-Mart in Montana.  It used to be that soft of a child’s teddy bear, now, it looked ragged.  He followed her and though dark, it still thrilled him as she walked to the living room in front of the sliding glass door, naked, dropping the blanket on the couch.  She went to the bookshelf, picked up that movie, walked to the DVD player, inserted the disc and returned to the couch.  She picked up the blanket; laid it on the couch with half on the seat cushions and the other half draped over the back. He watched her find both remote controls, lay back into the blanket, take the half on the back of the couch and wrap herself up.

It was this next part that drove him mad. She pressed play, set the television timer to turn off in 120 minutes and then turned her back to the television, her face into the back of the couch.  She didn’t even watch the movie. But he watched her.  Every night. She normally fell asleep during minute 32, shortly after Baby Bear passes through his event horizon into the black liquid of nightmares.  On a bad night, she made it longer, in a state somewhere between awake and safe slumber, hearing each character face their worst nightmares, some meeting inevitable death.

On minute 32 nights, he felt relief for her and for himself. But it was torture for him on those nights she didn’t make it to sleep. He watched her jump at the slamming of the ship’s bay doors.  He watched her jerk when Dr. Weir’s wife haunted him, making him feel an awful guilt for not being able to save her from herself.  He saw her twitch when Denny’s mother heard her son’s voice, inflicting cruel blame for not being there for him.  He felt each time she was almost asleep only to be brought back by some horror, pain or nightmare inflicted by the sound design and script.

At first, he thought she was fighting to stay awake out of solidarity for his own insomnia and he was glad for the company.  But he learned, with each insertion of the disc, she was fighting to sleep. Sleep was something he craved and something with which she never had a problem. Why was it a problem now? He spent hours thinking about it, thinking of every possible reasoning, inevitably coming to the same conclusion each time.  He had no idea. 

He just stood there and watched her, not disturbing her while she worked to fall asleep.

He recently tried to ask her about her new routine but they were not on speaking terms. There was a time when they talked so easily. She was one of the only women he felt a connection with because she was smart.  She matched him point for point in any discussion about politics and hit him right back with a witty retort when he was testing her about academic knowledge.  She listened to him go on about his bugs and biological theories even when he knew she had no idea what he was talking about.  She made him feel interesting and relevant.  And he felt loved by just one look from her. He knew he was hard to live with, and so her tolerance made him love her more. 

He was just so confused. He knew they weren’t speaking. He knew it had to do with his relapse. He knew the incident had been big enough to cause this silent treatment, but he could not remember exactly when or how it happened.

Tonight, it was only minutes after putting her face into the back of the couch did she turn to the screen.  He watched her blankly watch until the TV automatically turned off.  He watched her watch the dark screen for almost 30 minutes in complete silence.  But as soon as the he felt enough courage to speak, she reached for both remotes and turned the TV back on and started the movie over. But this time, instead of turning her back to the television, she watched.  She watched every minute, every detail, every nightmare, every character’s guilt collapse them into their own event horizons.

It was as though watching this vivid horror film was easier to watch than the nightmares she endured when sleeping.  As though these nightmares were easier to bear than the grief she seemed engulfed in. He wondered if her dreams were really worse than the movie’s images.  He wondered if watching the characters going through the worse imaginable pain was her way of knowing others hurt as much as she did.

He didn’t know if he could manage the next 120 minutes. It was time. 

He spoke her name, and she did not respond.  He wasn’t sure if she could hear him over the airlocks opening and closing, so he spoke again, with more force. She screamed, but not at him, it seemed more about him. She pulled the blanket up from the couch while she leapt to her toes using the blanket as a shield. He watched her chest rise and fall, her body tense, and her eyes search his face. 

His own body began feeling strange.  It was strong, and he felt each of his organs being pulled down to his core.  The great weight was gaining heaviness inside and the pull was painful.  He saw her eyes move from his face to an urn on the bookshelf above where she pulled the movie.  As she brought her eyes back to his face, the pull inside became more than he could resist.  He felt his body collapsing under the weight of the blackness that seemed to appear behind him. He watched her back away, her eyes wide. 

And then he understood.  He had left her. He heard Baby Bear screaming in the background. He saw the line of her arm reaching out to him.  He felt the crushing gravity of the blackness behind him. And then there was no light.