The Void Smiles Back - Jordon Jones

Pulling open the white door revealed my new friend. The impenetrable darkness. It was the darkness you’d see in the creases where space-time folds. I reached out a hand—my palms were sweaty—and grasped into the abyss. As my hand met the darkness, for a brief second, a warmth spread across my skin, a pleasant sensation soon replaced with the biting cold of the void. I recoiled. My heart was racing, and I couldn’t control my breathing. Gasping for air, I ran back through the house and dragged myself up the staircase.
 
At the top, I came face to face with myself. My skin was oily, from grease or sweat, I couldn’t tell. My face was rather indistinct, black hair obscured most of it, and it was contorted into an expression of terror. My blue eyes were widened, pupils dilated worse than a twenty-year-old on acid.
 
I shook my head and forced my way into the bathroom; stripping away my clothes as I did. Climbing into the shower bath, I turned the temperature as low as possible and curled up beneath the ice-cold spittle that emerged; I had to fix the pressure one of these days. As I sat foetal, I tried to control my breathing. In. One. Two. Three. Release. Repeat.
 
After a while, my heart rate dropped, and I felt at ease. Sitting there, I reflected on the first time this had happened.
 
 It was shortly after she died.
 
We were outside, shopping in the local market. I had just bought some fresh fruit and vegetables; she was somewhere looking at artisan cheeses. I didn’t see it, but when I went to find her, a crowd had formed. Hundreds of people were crowded around the cheese stand, people sat on their shoulders trying to get a better look at what was going on. I pushed my way to the front. There she was. She was lying flat on the old stone path, blood pooling around her skull. I fell to my knees, screaming as tears fell down my cheeks, dripping into the red blood that began soaking into my jeans.
 
An ambulance soon arrived, and the paramedics told me what I already knew; she was dead. Later, I learned it was because of a ruptured aortic aneurysm; likely from high blood pressure because of stress. It was my fault. I knew she didn’t enjoy the market crowds, and yet I pressed her into going. Was just too much for the old ticker. Doctors tell me I shouldn’t blame myself, but if I don’t, then I’ll blame her; I love her too much to do that. I thought I could handle the guilt.
 
And so, I became reclusive. Only leaving the house for the funeral, and even then, I couldn’t even give the damn speech at the eulogy. I think I’ve repressed most of it, and all I can remember is a sea of black and tears. I didn’t go to the wake or speak to her family; I should have, I know, but I just couldn’t. All I wanted was to get home, get home and lie down. And so, that’s what I did. I lay in bed for a day, then another. Days turned into weeks until eventually, my friend came to check in on me. He was a big bloke, muscular. He worked at a bakery but did some blacksmithing as a hobby. Anyways, he came over—hands covered in soot—and he tried to drag me outside. He swings open the door, and there it was.
 
The impenetrable black.
 
I dropped to my knees and sobbed. My friend tried his best to pull me outside. Eventually, he just tossed me over his shoulder and stepped into the void. I don’t remember what happened next. I passed out. The next thing I knew, I was in the doctor's office. He had booked me in to see a shrink. Of course he did. I played along and talked to the good doctor about my feelings, and they said I shouldn’t blame myself.
 
Because of course they did. Why do they need a fucking degree and a hundred quid an hour to tell me the same shit my mother does in every text? Excuse my language, that was uncouth. But really, what a waste of time; obviously I shouldn’t blame myself, but I do. They weren’t all bad, they did recommend some breathing exercises to help calm the panic attacks.  
 
So, I spent another week in bed and ran out of food. So, in my PJs, I mustered up the courage to swing open the door. Again, I was met with the void. My heart raced as I slammed the door shut and run into the next room. I ripped open the curtains and looked outside. It was a sunny day—much like today—and people were out in their gardens. The kids across the road were wasting water running through the hoses, drinking it and all the e-coli they could. Was e-coli in the water? Doesn’t matter. I saw them all, even my neighbour cutting my grass. So, I marched back to the door and pulled it open.
 
The abyss greeted me once again.
 
I slammed it and ran. I had to resort to shopping online, and the next day it arrived; from the void came bags of food. Mostly cupboard crap and frozen pizzas, but food all the same. The basic nourishment required to just not die. Once it seemed all the food had appeared, I slammed the door and collapsed in on myself. I was covered in sweat, and my heart was racing. I couldn’t breathe. So, I ran to the bathroom and had my first cold shower. The same kind I am having right now.
 
I am sitting here, wallowing. Wallowing in self-pity. Most of my friends gave up on me months ago—they tried their best to bless them, but I just did not care—and so I was more alone than ever. And all this time alone gave me time to think. What should I do? I should kill myself and get it over with. That was my first thought. But I just cannot bring myself to do it. I don’t deserve it. I need to suffer.
 
I say that. I act as though self-flagellation is the goal. But I am scared. I am too scared to see her again. My wife. If I killed myself, she would never forgive me. Would she? She would tell me I should have lived my life and not wasted it in squalor. Because that’s exactly what I’m doing, isn’t it? Wasting my life here in piss, shit, and sometimes blood. I cry into a pillow every day and sleep through most of the pain. What a waste.
 
I will change. For her. Even if it is my fault she died, she wouldn’t blame me. I grab the bath’s rim and pull myself up. Then I pull the white towel off the rack and dry myself before running. I climb over the pizza boxes, the cans, and all the discarded junk. I climb the mountain of garbage and make my way to the walk-in wardrobe. Inside sit all my dusty old clothes, unworn for the year. I cobble together an outfit—black jeans, a black shirt, a black jacket, and black sunglasses. Iconic. I wade back through the garbage and down the stairs. The door is facing me. I take a deep breath and swing it open. 
 
The void smiles back.
 
Undeterred, I stand. My palms are sweaty, and my breathing is panicked. But I stand strong. In. One. Two. Three. Release. Repeat. I do this and take one step into the abyss. Then another. Soon, I am standing outside, surrounded by impenetrable blackness. Panic claws back into my soul, but I stand strong. I refuse to flee. I refuse to surrender. Then, I feel it. The sun’s warmth and a gentle breeze. The abyss has shifted. It’s no longer an infinite expanse. It is now finite—more like a black backdrop to an early Hollywood flick.
 
Then, the smiling void cracks. Light seeps through the cracks as they run along its surface, spreading all over; the golden light is almost blinding, and then I hear an internal snap, deep within the darkest recesses of my brain. The void collapses. It falls to the ground and shatters, forming specks of dust that drift off into the wind. Once the dust settles, the street is revealed. People are walking down it, going about their daily lives. To my left, my neighbour is cutting his lawn. He looks at me, stops, and takes off his headphones, peeling them away from his sweat-covered bald head, and comes over.
 
“Hey,” he says, “how are you? You look… better.”
 
“I’m—” I pause. I’m not better yet, I know that. But I have taken the first step, and that is always the hardest. “—Going to be okay.”