Yet from the midst of the dark morass, sure as the tide, Light returned. Not frenzied, not surprised but constant and complete. All that was, was as it should be. All was illumined.
This is the third in a three-part series call Abducted. This is the conclusion of that story, so if you haven’t already, please go back and read Part 1 and Part 2. Now, on with the story.
Her hair shimmered with a halcyon glow in the setting sun. He embraced her with a full inhale. She always smelled of soap and lemons. They were lounging on a blanket in the backyard for picnic Tuesdays, one of her many ideas that made the weeks more tolerable, especially in those final, painful months. John looked into her eyes and felt reminded afresh of his love for her. Olivia overwhelmed him with such joy and satisfaction that his feelings for her often teetered on the cusp of adulation or even worship. On that Tuesday, she laughed with a gaiety that seemed to harmonize with nature itself. The consonance still rang in his ears when he suddenly heard his name grunted harshly.
“I’m speaking to you, John!” He was startled back into the present. The dank, mildewing of the towel he slept on. The underlying odor of urine, likely his own. The heat that seemed to cause the very walls to sweat.
“Take me back,” he murmured.
“What? What did you say?!”
“Take me back,” he moaned again. How many days had he been in this cell. Weeks? Could have been two days or two months. He was tired and in pain and despairing. Tariq nudged him hard, though not angrily, with his foot.
“What are you saying, John?”
“Olivia.” Tariq lowered his head at the mention of her name.
“She is not here. You know this.” John began to cry again. His eyes streaked with the grime of captivity. He tightened into his fetal position. “Sit up. You look pathetic,” Tariq said with a wince at his own harshness. He exhaled frustratedly. “When did she die?”
Through the whimpering, John managed to emit, “almost a year ago, or maybe it’s been a year already?” He wiped his face and suddenly glowered up at Tariq. “Did you read my book?” he asked with a weak gasp of rage.
“No, no I did not.”
“Then why won’t you give it to me?” At that, Tariq tossed the gilded journal at John who was suddenly revived if only to grab and hold the final words of the only woman, maybe the only person, he ever truly loved. He cried again, rocking with the journal tight against his chest. “Do you know what this is?”
“No.”
“When she got real sick, like, real sick, she,” his throat caught again, “she wrote 52 journal entries for me. Fifty-two! Can you believe it?”
“Hmm.” Tariq was moved far more than his expression showed. But it didn’t matter. John was staring off into some prism of the past.
“Dying, literally dying, and she uses her last bit of energy to write to me.” His forehead furrowed again, and tears spilled down his cheeks. “She, uh, she told me to go on a trip. She,” his faced tightened and then released, “she even mapped it out for me. She didn’t want me to sit in my depression. She wanted me to spend the first year after her death seeing the world. Tunisia was my last stop.”
Tariq looked down at him. He tilted his head and studied him. Something in John’s demeanor—his pure, raw anguish born out of love that transcended a solitary moment or even a single relationship—angered Tariq even though John was clearly suffering, in body and spirit. Yet there he sat, another man, not much younger than he was, sitting in his own filth, weeping at such a visceral loss. He envied him.
John sniffed again and looked down at the journal. Its cover was worn but still bore much of the goldleaf accentuating the Celtic design. He opened the book, thumbing to the last page.
You’ve completed your journey, my love. Hooray! I’m so proud of you. While this entry is my last written word to you, I am waiting for you, waiting on those golden shores, waiting for you to join me. Don’t lose hope. I know you like to brood, but for the rest of your life, know this, God will not abandon you. And when he knows that you can’t bear any more suffering, he will bring you comfort. It may not be in the form you expected. You may not even see it coming. But regardless, find joy in your present, enjoy every moment! And know this: you are loved. You are my love.
Yours,
Olivia
He closed the journal and then closed his eyes tightly. Tears continued to flow in rivers down his face. But to Tariq’s surprise, a smile broke out on his face.
“There is no one who was like my Olivia.” He looked up at Tariq who looked down at him pensively. “I don’t know why, and it feels weird to say, but I think you’d have liked her.”
“Hmm.”
“You know, it really doesn’t matter.” John bowed his head, fingering the grooves in the journal’s cover.
“What doesn’t?”
“When or even if I’ll get out of here.”
“Perhaps you will not be here much longer.” John didn’t look up. Tariq waited, squinted, further angered, disappointed at the lack of reaction to such an admission. “Did you not hear me, John? I said you may not be here much longer!”
John kept rocking, staring at something. The three beams of light were interrupted by something that flew past the window. He began to smile softly. He looked up at Tariq. Tariq looked back, confused.
“What’s wrong with you?! Don’t you want to know why or even when you’ll be released?” John’s eyes relaxed and he looked at Tariq. To Tariq, it almost seemed as though he were looking through him. John smiled again.
“What changed? Why do you all of sudden seem so eager to let me go?”
“It’s not about what I want,” he paused and looked around. “I mean, there is talk of something big coming. We will be moving soon, and,” he looked over his shoulder again, “it could be an opportunity for you to, you know…” Tariq made a flapping motion with hand like a one-winged bird.
“I thought you said ‘released’? Escape is something else entirely!” Tariq leaned in close, inches from John’s face. He spoke with a quiet intensity.
“Listen, do you want to leave? Huh? Do you want a chance live outside this place?”
“Well sure, but…”
“But what?!”
“Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter.”
“What do you mean?!” Tariq stepped back and looked down at John with disgust, “What is wrong with you? For this to work, you need me, and if you don’t start acting right, I will not help you…” he looked around again, “escape!” he concluded in a loud whisper.
“Truly, Tariq, I’m grateful, but it’s ok. This is my present, and whatever happens, well, happens.”
Suddenly a strange look came over John’s face, one of full animation, almost excitement. John himself couldn’t fully explain the feeling. He looked up quickly at Tariq. His face was full, almost glowing.
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday, why?”
Just then, there was a moment of pure and full reckoning. Light consumed the room and silence overtook everything. He caught a glimpse of Tariq and the cell and the mountain explode into a fulmination so complete that he felt no pain. Absolution.
Three miles away, a puff of dust on the horizon; the muted cheering of a mobile army unit just outside Kasserine; an M60 Patton Tank still smoked and vibrated.
As always, thank you for reading More than Mundanity. I hope you enjoyed this short story. If you’d like to share your thoughts, please comment below. If you’d like to share this post, click here:
Regardless, I’m so grateful for your interest and your time. I know we’re all busy, but remember, a little fiction is good for soul.