Solitary Journey

Was he awake? He wasn't sure. He thought his eyes were open, but in the blackness he couldn't be sure. Even in the dark he could still make out the perimeter of the room, but maybe that was just from memory. He knew every subtle color that streaked the concrete walls, some from the crumbling plaster, and ancient paint and some caused by the water that seemed to constantly run down from the ceiling on the wall in front of him. The water created patterns that held his attention at least for part of the long days, and he had read all of the graffiti, some funny, but most of it filthy and not terribly inventive. He wondered about the people who had written on these walls. Had they been kept here against their will, too, or had they crashed here because they had nowhere else to go? Either way, it made him sad.

How long had he been here? He couldn't remember. And he wasn't sure if it even mattered now. He had always thought of his life as one long, solitary journey, so dying alone seemed appropriate for someone like him.

As light from the lone high window filtered down, he began to think about the things he would miss. He didn't want to think about the people yet, because it was too painful, but thinking about the small things gave his mind something to do. What would he miss?

Books. He would miss the smell of the paper that caught him unawares when he opened a new book, the spine cracking gently as he ran his hand across a page with anticipation of the journey to come. A trip through the strange worlds of William Gibson always pulled him away from the weariness of a rough day of reality. He wondered if the future would really be as Gibson imagined, full of high tech gadgets imbedded in your brain, ready to be activated by your own thoughts. He could have used something like that when they first brought him here. He could have just thought of Ops and the team would have been able to track and find him. Then he wouldn't be here dying.

He needed to think of something else. What books had made him happy? Then he fondly recalled all of Dave Barry's books. He had received the first one by chance as a gift one Christmas at the shelter where he volunteered. That book had made him laugh so hard he had fallen off the couch, and when he had finished it he had immediately gone out and bought as many of his other titles as he could find.

He could remember the feel of the old paperbacks he had kept because he couldn't bear to part with the memory of the story. He was one of those readers who dog-eared pages so he could flip to his favorite passages when he needed to be distracted from a particularly disquieting day. He could almost feel the soft texture of their worn pages on his fingertips, but that was just a memory. Books had always been his escape from the terror of his childhood and now he hoped his memory of them would help him cope with the terror of another day of isolation and pain.

He could see the far wall now, and thought about what it would feel like to walk over to it. He had not been on his feet for several days, maybe longer, and he missed the feeling of movement. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. They had been tied behind him to a rusting pipe since they had brought him here and his butt had been asleep for so long he couldn't feel that either. He bent his knees to see if he could, but the pain made him reconsider. He could see the dried blood on his left leg, and he was amazed the wound had stopped bleeding. Not that it mattered, since he had lost so much blood already that he was light headed all the time now.

What else would he miss? The ocean. The smell of the salt spray carried by the sharp, crisp wind blowing off the tops of the waves. The sound of the waves crashing and then the small sound at the end as the wave flattens to run up the beach brushing the sand and lapping at your toes. He had loved that as a child and the feeling of calm it brought him had lasted his whole life.

And he would miss surfing. That solitary experience of calm before the exhilaration of being lifted by the power of the water and the joy of working a rushing wave until it slowly subsided, letting you catch your breath before doing it all over again. He had always felt somewhat invincible when he was sitting on his board waiting for a wave. Life seemed to stretch out in front of him then, almost endless, but now the cold dampness of this claustrophobic room made him long for the sun and wind and wild surf and freedom.

He had not seen anyone for days, and he doubted they would come back at all, since he had told them all he knew. None of it was true, but they were convinced it was. He was pretty sure they were just going to let him slowly die of blood loss, thirst and hunger. They had never fed him or given him water, so maybe that was part of their plan, whoever they were. He couldn't even remember the operation he'd been on, but that was probably because of the blow to his head that still caused him bright flashes of pain whenever he moved too quickly. Not that he was moving much anymore. He could feel the exhaustion starting to overwhelm his body, taking away his desire to fight for survival. He thought he would be stronger, that he would struggle mightily until his last breath, but now he just wanted to go to sleep with his memories and he was not even sure he cared if he woke up again. He was so tired of the pain and the isolation, and even though he had always thought of himself as a solitary man, he longed to hear a voice one last time.

What would he miss? Think about that. A voice. Music. He would miss his favorite music. He loved the old blues guys, Son House and Muddy Waters. His grandfather used to play old 78 records that he had collected of all the classic bluesmen and they would listen to them together when he stayed with him as a little boy.

But then a Ray Lamontagne song drifted through his mind, and the melancholy lyrics drew his mind where he was afraid to let it go.

"When you kissed my lips with my mouth so full of questions,

It's my worried mind that you quiet,

Place your hands on my face,

Close my eyes and say,

Love is a poor man's food,

Don't prophesize,

I could hold you in my arms,

I could hold you in my arms forever."

Then she filled his thoughts and every corner of his mind and he thought he would go mad with the knowledge that he would never see her again, or touch her fine black hair, or marvel at her strange and wonderful eyes. He touched his memories of her tenderly with his mind, and slowly they calmed his racing heart, so full of her he thought it would explode. She had brought a brilliance to his life that he hadn't known was missing until he met her, until he had spent days with her, watching her whenever he had the chance. Her confidence in herself buoyed him when they were in tough situations, even though he still worried about her, like he was doing now. His fingers tingled with the memory of her silken skin and he could almost taste her lips against his. His body longed for hers and those memories were sweet and sad at the same time because he would never be that close to her again. Warm tears wet his cheeks and he thought it might be his undoing, but he couldn't help himself. She was the hardest memory of all, the one person he would miss more than life itself. If he was angry about anything, he was angry that they had taken him from her.

He was done now, finished with his short life. He was ready to rest from the pain and the loneliness and the fear and the knowledge he would die far from her and her sweet, sweet smile. The lightness in his head grew and he felt himself floating upwards. He felt no pain now, as the darkness came. Dreams formed a kaleidoscope in his mind, swirling and floating and full of the colors of his life. He thought he heard her voice calling his name and he felt the joy of hearing her voice one last time, even though it was only in his dreams. Dreams could seem so real. Now he thought he felt her soft hands on his face and strong hands on his arms and it felt comforting, almost like he wasn't alone and he was glad for the feeling. But than sharp tingling pain enveloped his hands and a searing pain clutched at his chest and he worried that his dream had turned into a nightmare. He felt as if he was lying on a cold beach, with lightening strikes of pain shooting through his head and he wanted it to stop so he cried out. Can you stop a nightmare that way, he wondered. Then he felt his head resting on softness and he smiled at his return to sweet dreams, far away from pain and fear. He was ready now, ready to take that solitary journey. So he sighed one last time at the memory of her and let himself go.

...

She panicked when she felt him go limp, as his head lay in her lap, so she slapped him hard across the face. The others stared at her, but she wouldn't let him go that easily. He had cried out in pain just a moment go, so he was right on the edge of consciousness, she just had to convince him it was worth the effort to fight all the way back. She wouldn't let him go, no matter how bad he looked, no matter how long he had been held here, no matter how much he had suffered, she would will him back, no matter how long it took. So she slapped his face again and then she shouted his name.

...

It felt as if an electric shock had gone off in his head. Was he still dreaming? Or was it the nightmare again. He was ready to move on but his dream wouldn't let him. Again he felt the shock reverberate through his brain, and he was starting to get pissed off about it. Can't a man die in peace, he wondered? Maybe he should just open his eyes and see if they had come back to torture him again. That would definitely piss him off. You've killed me, he wanted to tell them, now let me die, you assholes. He thought he might have said that last part out loud. So he opened his eyes.

"You just called me an asshole, Deeks," she said to him softly with that sweet, sweet smile on her face.

And his dream finally became realty.

...

Ray Lamontagne lyrics are his and are used here for effect and not for any monetary gain.