Dawn

"And once the storm is over, you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in." — Haruki Murakami

I laid before God in the most pitiful of shape, waiting desperately for his final smiting in a lifelong war against his malicious omnipotence. Truthfully, I was no believer— However, so small I felt in the quiet morning, I could not help looking up at the clearing sky and trying to find something greater to throw my anger onto. Placing my misery in the name of God’s plan, God’s curse, or simply fate, was easier than facing it alone with me as the only perpetrator. I wanted martyrdom, I wanted to kill my pride and ego, which ached in the face of my miserable constitution, and become a visceral incarnation of pathos. 

There are moments in one’s life which feel like defining narrative beats within a predetermined story. That morning, I snickered in an almost senile way, remembering my creative writing classes from college. I could see my professor speaking of this particular beat I now found myself in— “The dark night of the soul” as he called it. The moment where it all comes crashing down, where the protagonist loses everything and becomes hopeless. The “all-time low” of one’s life. 

I knew, in a disembodied, blame-avoidant manner, that I deserved it. I had come to this point on my own, I saw the warnings coming from miles but played deafness at the blaring alarms, running deeper and faster toward  my own personal hell and ultimately causing my own befalling. 

I woke up on the side of the road in New York City, on 42nd street, with a black eye, a split lip, and no recollection of anything past a certain point the night before. All I knew was that my whole body was in pain, that I no longer had my wallet on me, that one of my shoes was missing, that I was without a job, and that my wife had left me with our toddler in her arms. And I chuckled, chest rising painfully, contorting over myself and trying to drown out any sob that left my throat. 

No scene, none that I wrote in my lifetime, were quite as pathetic as this one. That of a battered man, a stupid, self-important man, laughing on the ground at the sheer magnitude of his own despair as he faced the consequences of his indulgences. 

If there was a God and a Heaven, I knew I would never meet one or the other, for I despised him and his creation; I hated the perfect genius of his hands crafting me into a doomed existence I no longer wanted. A deliberate design like a tragic comedy meant to be pointed at and mocked by its divine architect. 

Therefore, on one hand, I could refuse faith in a higher power— however, it would mean the blame for my circumstances was solely on my back, and I feared breaking beneath such a weight; on the other hand, I could look up and externalize accountability onto cosmic determinism, but that would mean accepting that this life of mine was written to turn out this way, and the thought was agonizing, making me boil with an anger I could not confront. I was torn apart and the common denominator of both reflections was a deep longing for my existence, whether calculated or deriving from free will, to end here and there on that pavement. 

It might have. Perhaps I would have let myself starve and never stood up again, growing roots into the ground and becoming one with its matter. Perhaps I would have stumbled a few feet away onto the incoming traffic, selfish even in my very last moments. Perhaps I would have clawed at my skin with my dirty nails and skinned myself from the inside out, or choked on my own vomit and laughter until no air could reach my lungs. It could have been easy; the wasting away of a being no person truly cared for anymore. 

But as the sun burned my skin on this feverish day, my access to it was suddenly blocked. I was bathed in shades from a figure hovering above my body, a frown on their traits. My laughter and sobbing waned, looking up at them in silence, and mentally cursing out fate for obstructing my only moment of true resolution toward self-annihilation. 

“Alexander?” I heard from a male voice I hadn’t heard in months already. 

I closed my eyes. I did not want to be confronted by the dire reality of my situation. From my waking up to this moment, I was in a liminal space, a moment in time where I could be a ghost with nothing but reflections to bring into the world. I could ignore the condition of my body and the state of my dignity, delving into matters of life and death like a switch to be flipped. 

“Jesus Christ,” the man exhaled. “What happened to you?”

“Go away,” I whispered with a vague movement of the hand. 

“Are you okay?” He went on with uncharacteristic concern. “Christ, you don’t look okay.”

I usually would have claimed being fine with vehemence, like I had for years now. But that morning, I didn’t. I turned away like a petulant teenager refusing to be woken up by their parents, and kept my eyelids tightly closed. 

There was a pause from him, a moment of halt where I thought—hoped, really—that he would decide to walk away and leave me on my own. Even in my lowest moments I could not erase my incessant pride screaming in my ears, irrational and ridiculous in the extent to which it pushed me in order to protect itself. Even in abstract hopes for an ego-death I still fought against it in the material realm. As I said, this was a fundamentally flawed and incoherent thinking— by turning away I did not erase the shame and pathos of my position and disposition; by hoping he would walk away I would not take away the fact that I was hugging the pavement, hung-over, despairing, and beat up. But I had become accustomed to entertain delusions and illogical justifications by then; it was the grand marshal of my downfall, a parade made up of my worst qualities and decisions.

“Come on, get up,” the man said, voice oscillating between a certain pitiful softness and an authoritative and critical sternness that asked for obedience. “You can’t just stay here.”

“Watch me,” Alexander muttered. 

The man sighed. I could not see him, for I refuse to face him, but I can easily imagine him: a hand on his hips or his arms crossed, rolling his eyes while anxiously trying to find ways to get through to me.

“Want me to drag you up? Because I will,” he declared. 

I didn’t believe him, which is something I would come not do often after that. He paused once more, waiting for me to answer or move from my curled up position, and eventually did as he said. He crouched down and placed his hands behind my armpits, helping me up despite my complaints. My legs were wobbly and I felt nauseous. He wrapped my arm around his shoulders and held onto my waist, bringing me to his car. 

Here’s the moment where I should probably reveal the identity of this man. His name was Thomas Jefferson, and I had known him for three years prior to this day. We had worked together on a marketing team for a large company, a job I hated that made me easily irked. He and I did not get along. It was a fundamental clash of personalities: my stubbornness meeting rigidness, my need for accolades meeting disregard, my frowns and anger met with grins and eye rolls. He infuriated me and he seemed to enjoy prompting my reactions. 

But I do believe now, with some distance, that it was somewhat in good fun in the beginning. My anger was real, but I was a boastful young man who wanted to prove himself— truthfully, I liked the challenge and entertainment our arguments gave me. Days were too quiet when he was out of office. 

That changed. It stopped being fun for either of us at some point, as my life slowly but surely began unraveling from under my feet. Last I had seen him before that morning, we had left with only bitter glares for each other while I packed my desk in a cardboard box and walked for the last time out of the office. 

Of course, then came that day where he found me lying on the pavement on the side of the road. Despite all the flaws I would have readily given him, he is human, and no human would have glanced at that woeful portrait with a known face on its subject and walked away. Well, perhaps they would have; but it is less a reflection of the humanity within the man than it is for the lack thereof in the detached metropolis I lived in.

Thomas was stronger than I was. He was an athletic, balanced person, who jogged in Central Park and went to the gym a few times a week; tall and square-shouldered. I, on the other hand, did not have those qualities. I was thin, short, ill-looking for a long time; I was battered and beaten from whatever went down the previous night; my hair was brittle and broke easily; my skin grayed and my traits always dragged on, heavy on the gravity of the suffering I put myself through. Therefore, no matter how much I might not have wanted it, if Thomas wanted to drag me up and to his car, he entirely could. No protests of mine would have made a change— and I did not protest much. 

I let myself be handled, driven around, dragged; I let the doctors evaluate my condition; I let myself be brought back to Thomas’ car; I let him buy and give me pain medication; until he asked for my address to bring me home to my wife and child. 

Of course, he couldn’t have known that she had left. He couldn’t have known that I didn’t have anyone waiting at home. He couldn’t have known that beyond my physical ailments was a deep and powerful despair that extended far beyond what doctors could provide me with. I was suddenly reminded of my loss and regrets through Thomas’ innocuous words, and I reacted in the only way I knew how to deal with unbearable anguish: I tried to flee from prying eyes. 

That was not much use. I could not make a few steps out of the car that he caught up with me, holding onto my shoulders. I shouted vicious curses at him in the hopes he would let me go. He did not. My voice, sharp and raspy, lost power as I screamed. My face contorted in manners I couldn’t help, falling and trembling, and I looked down best I could to hide my soon growing tears. I broke down in sobs, as the internal duel within my emotional landscape came to a resolution: a sword fight between my pride and hopelessness, with hopelessness winning from its sheer pervasiveness. 

And I sobbed and wept, with no way to control it. For a long time, my body, actions, feelings— it all felt out of my control, forces which swept me in one direction or the other as I remained frozen and idle. In a vast sea of loneliness and pain, I drowned, washed away by a storming sky and agitated waters. I did not know how to swim in it. I could not tame it. The water was me and I was drowning in it; the self versus the self, a fight that can only end with me as a casualty. And as I cried the loss of my son and wife, life and happiness, all I wanted, a perverse and abominable desire that took everything away already— was a drink. 

I desperately, painfully needed a drink. It was my vice, my defect, my sea; it had its suffocating and inescapable grip on me for a long time and made me follow its path until I had nothing left; and then it made me crave it still. I did not know how to bear suffering without it, and it was the source of much of my suffering.

But I knew I could not escape Thomas’ vigilance, not in my broken state. The poor man did not expect such an outpour coming from me,  he stood idle for a long moment, watching me as I curled up over myself, burying my face in my hands as my shoulders shook up and down from my crying, hiding in plain sight to try and salvage some of my dignity. But no matter how hard I may have tried, I could not quiet the wails inside my throat; those wretched moans of pure agony that escaped through my fingers and made me sound like an injured animal in need of care. 

I suppose, in one way, I did achieve my previous longing to incarnate pathos. Out in the open, busy streets of the city, I stood as a statue; forced on display, a representation of something greater; A concept more than a human, like a figure of Greek mythology— There was the wrath of God and there was the anguish of Man and in this picturesque scene I epitomized both. 

In the heart of any self-important man reside two desiderata: the one, often prevailing, to be respected, admired, congratulated— a sense of being characterized by a need to portray strength and control at any moment; and the other, the hidden, shameful one, to be Shakespearian in the tragedy exuded, to be pitied as a profoundly lamentable character in a play centered around oneself, to be found innocent of all guilt by an audience swayed by one’s tears

I wanted innocence. I wanted to let go of the guilt and regret I carried; I wanted to be seen as someone controlled by external forces— a victim of the world they lived in. I wanted someone to see those that turned their backs on me and say they were the ones in the wrong: how could they blame a powerless man for his actions? How could they leave him behind when he is so weak? How dare they be so cruel?

Here I must point out the unfairness of my framing. I felt the injustice deep in my blood, truly believing I could be beyond accountability because I was at such a mercy to my own internal experiences. But it is only because I am the protagonist of the story I am hereby telling that I can be seen as a victim, for I have hurt and pushed through hell people around me, who had to bring it to a halt at some point and disengage from my self-destruction, otherwise bringing them down with me. Here Thomas’ further response doesn’t highlight the cruelty of my past friends and wife; it only shows that he was a person who did not have to endure me as they did, who did not know of my actions toward them, and could therefore muster compassion to my self-inflicted disposition. The ones that left me behind are as much responsible for my eventual recovery as Thomas is. Even though I blamed them then, I would come to understand they saved me by refusing to be complacent to my harmful actions.  

After standing still and being an observer to my breakdown, Thomas eventually came closer: he placed a hand on my back, rubbing it gently, and tried to lead me back to the confines of his car. He was not good at comforting people. Paradoxically Thomas was neither known for his empathy nor for his compassion, and yet he did his best to answer with both that day.

It took a long time for me to calm down, even sitting in his car. At first he sat next to me, saying useless claims that everything would be fine and that I was okay, but then he started driving, I didn’t know where. As he drove I slowly calmed down; my sobs quieted and my tears ran out, all I could do was sniffle and shake, head low in shame. 

We stopped in the parking lot of a building, and Thomas paused. 

“Do you want to come in?” he asked, tone more careful than he had ever used with me. He sounded almost scared, as though he feared one wrong enunciation would make me break apart once more. “I could heat you some food.” 

The thing about dependence is that to be sustained, it must be justified by irrational thinking and illogical reflections. There is no other way to keep feeding an addiction: you witness with your own eyes the consequences of it and still try to find loopholes to come back to it. 

In the face of Thomas’ proposition, I wanted to refuse. My reasoning was thus: I had already lost so much, was already so far ahead on the path to self-destruction, I might as well finish it off. A twisted sunk-cost fallacy applied to livelihood. 

But there was a nuance: dependence comes with a degree of denial, and for a very long time, if I were to have been asked about my relationship with alcohol, I would have scoffed at the mere thought that I might have a problem. By then, however, I wouldn’t say I was in denial anymore: I was keenly and dreadfully aware that I had lost control, but I could not bring myself to try and stop it. I was my own mesmerizing trainwreck, and I wanted to see it to the end. 

I wanted to drink, and figured I would find a way to get rid of Thomas. However, it hit me in a moment: I did not have any money left. My wallet had been stolen. I had rack up so much credit card debt, I could not show up to the bank to take out money without being harassed by the workers. I had drank any droplet left at home, and I could have gone to a gay bar to find someone willing to buy me a drink, but that wasn’t an easy task at this hour of the day, and with my black eye and ill-struck appearance I did not attract many people. I could not drink, no matter the way… except perhaps if Thomas has some in his apartment. 

I nodded toward him. 

He helped me inside the building and into the elevator, then let me in his apartment. A few months previously, I would have never thought in a million years that I would get to see the interior of Thomas’ home. 

His apartment, much like him, breathed order and cleanliness. Fresh and tidy, decorated down to the last detail, filtering the sun through wide windows and the air with humidifiers. That morning I did not appreciate it like I should have, but today I can describe it with vivid memory: the gentle smell of lavender that lingers in the living room, the plants and greenery that adorns every corners, the tall shelves filled with books on many walls, the paintings of delicate scenes hung proudly and the intricate carpets soft under the feet, the cat that greets you at the door and rubs on your legs, the notes on the fridge reminding of appointments and the cooking recipes on one side of the counter— This was Thomas, but not the Thomas that people come to know; his home was an intimate place, a cocoon he made for himself, a sacred place inside which he could unwind and let himself be, but I digress. That morning I did not know that, and, so self-centered I was, I could not notice how uncomfortable he was with my presence inside of it. I defaced it without a care in the world and I am ashamed of it today still. 

He made me food and a warm drink—a tea of sorts, carefully brewed—and observed me with those wide eyes that I could have taken the time to dissect if I wanted. If I did, I would have seen that profound empathy for my character, detestable as I was, and the pure disbelief behind his gaze. In his words from today as I tell this story and he stands perched over my shoulder: “I saw you and wondered how so much suffering could fester in one man.” 

That morning, I did not notice his gaze nor did I care. All I could focus on was finding alcohol and a moment to steal it.  

Luckily for my quest, Thomas kept it in a small liquor cabinet adjacent to the kitchen, the bottles on full view behind glass doors. And I found my opening rather quickly: Thomas’ phone rang, he frowned and excused himself down the hallway, and almost immediately I went on my feet and stumbled anxiously to the cabinet. I rummaged through it until I found a small-sized bottle of rum, with a label I recognized to be expensive and way out of any budget I might have had. I heard Thomas coming back and I quickly closed the cabinet door, hiding the bottle up my sleeve, sitting back down in the front of the food Thomas provided me with. 

The first thing I did once he got back was ask to go to the bathroom. He seemed a bit taken aback by the abruptness of my request, but indicated to me where to find it. I tried to be slow and measured in my steps but could barely conceal my anticipation for this moment of relief. I locked myself inside the bathroom, sitting down on the closed toilet lid, and opened the bottle. I rushed the liquid to my throat, even though it was still lingering with the alcohol of the previous night, and felt a wave of consolation hit me. 

For a single and quick moment, as the strong liquid diluted in my veins, I felt a small consolation. It did not matter where I was or what nefarious process I went through to obtain it— I could be at peace and empty my brain within the familiar comfort of my worst enemy’s embrace. It was the forgetfulness I desired: I wanted to forget my wife, my friends, my family, my job, my life, all of which I lost for that small reprieve. In that moment, instead of justifying my actions through complex mental jumps, I did so with an unusual and macabre simplicity: it was that or death. It was alcohol or suicide. Alcohol was the lesser of two evils, no? Both would eventually have killed me anyway. 

Soon, sooner than I always wanted, there was no liquid left. Down to the very last drip I drank it, as it was half consumed already, and I then felt agonizingly empty. Craving satisfied, I felt the confusion and warmth that alcohol brought about, the world spinning around me, but also realized the futility of my actions. It never led me anywhere. Nights drinking led to hangover mornings, and my cure for it was more alcohol. But ultimately, it was a dead-end street. Even satisfied, I was so profoundly unhappy, even my trusted solace could not bring about respite. In the past, it might have; it no longer did. 

Here was a picture of myself which, even in that moment, I understood to be shameful: sitting down in the bathroom of someone who extended me a helping hand, his bottle now empty in my hand, eyes lost somewhere on the wall. 

There were a few knocks on the door, which I did not respond to. I didn’t get up, not until Thomas’ stern voice called out: “Open up, Alexander.”

I felt chilled to my core by that tone, and tried to hide the evidences of my crime. In a moment of panic I placed the bottle under the sink and then opened the door. 

I was faced with Thomas’ severe gaze, critical and analytic. I could not bear it for more than a few seconds before looking away. 

“Alexander,” he said, voice clear and loud. “Did you look through my liquor cabinet?”

Alcohol’s tender embrace suddenly choked me, and my breath halted. I did not answer. 

“Your cheeks are red,” he commented, then stepped closer. “And you smell like rum.”

I stepped backward. I wanted to hide away. I wanted to recoil. I wanted to not live anymore so as not to feel this excruciating shame that metastasized in my body. I trembled, tremors uncontrollable. 

“I didn’t,” slipped on my tongue, feeble and futile words of denial which I knew did not help my cause. The bathroom closed in on me, its walls collapsing over my head. I closed my eyes tightly and awaited further admonishments. They never came. 

In all the moments in my life up to this point, I don’t think someone’s reaction was ever so critical to my eventual survival as this one. Should it have been someone else, should he have been in a different mood, he might have screamed at me and rightfully kicked me to the streets. 

I truly believe if he had done so, I would not have lived to see another day. 

But instead, I felt a hand on my shoulder and another one on my back, gently guiding me out of the bathroom and into the living room. He sat me down, quiet, and handed me another cup of tea. The cup shook along my tremors. He sat down next to me. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Thomas began, voice subdued. 

“I’m sorry,” I quipped desperately. “I’ll pay you back for the bottle.”

Thomas shook his head, silently telling me he didn’t care for that. 

We stayed quiet some more, both lost in reflections. 

I dared looking up and met Thomas’ eyes; they looked at me and I felt naked before them. 

He opened his mouth, jaw hanging as the air stood still. I knew what he wanted to say. I knew it and I was ready. I started shaking further and inadvertently spilled hot tea on my hand. He held the cup steady.

“You need help, Alexander,” he declared. 

I pressed my lips together, a heavy lump in my throat. I nodded slowly, subtly, ashamedly. 

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, tears falling from my eyes again. I tried wiping them away. “I’m sorry.”

Thomas hesitated, looking away. He picked up the tea in my hands and placed it on the coffee table, then wrapped his arms around my shoulders in a tentative, gawky motion. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll find you help, Alexander. You’ll get better.”

I sobbed on his shoulder, grasping onto the fabric of his shirt tightly. 

***

Alexander stared at the screen of his computer, eyes unfocused, mind elsewhere. His cursor appeared and disappeared behind the last words written on the page, only movement in his sight, as he laid down on the couch, a cat nested on his chest. The sweet scent of lavender still prevailed in the room, even all those years later. 

Suddenly, he felt someone approach him with a gentle kiss on the top of his head. Alexander smiled, looking up at him. “Hello,” he mellowed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Thomas smiled back. “I didn’t think I could have much stealth anymore, with that cane I’m stuck with.”

Alexander chuckled, and Thomas sat down. Alexander first bent his knees, then he placed his legs back on Thomas’ lap, who absentmindedly traced patterns on his ankles. 

“How’s the book coming along?” Thomas asked, turning his gaze toward Alexander. 

Alexander sighed, pulling his head back. He looked up at the ceiling. “I either sound like a villain or a pathetic piece of shit. I’m having a hard time balancing it.”

Thomas shook his head. “Come on, darling. Don’t be so critical. You’ve come a long way.”

Alexander glanced back at his computer screen, then shook his head and closed it. He crawled closer to Thomas, the poor cat chased away, and wrapped himself in his arms. 

“Philip has a recital next weekend,” Alexander informed him. “Are you free to come?”

“Of course I’m free,” Thomas said. “I love that kid. I’m always free for him.”

Alexander smiled, looking up at Thomas. “Sometimes I think he loves you more than me.”

“Oh, no,” Thomas exhaled. “You’re his father. He has eyes only for you.”

“He’s a teenager,” Alexander complained. “He’s getting rebellious.”

“As if you weren’t at his age,” Thomas said in a melodious tone. 

“Shut up,” Alexander lightly slapped his chest. 

Thomas’ expression was soft and sweet, and Alexander rolled his eyes. He placed a hand on Thomas’ cheek, bringing their lips together. He pulled deeper into it, raising himself up, and ran a hand in Thomas’ hair. Once he parted, Thomas looked up at him with surprise. 

“What was that for?” he asked. 

Alexander shrugged. “I don’t know,” he breathed out. “A thank you?”

“What for?” Thomas repeated. 

“For being there,” Alexander answered simply. 

Thomas understood what Alexander meant, and nodded. He held onto Alexander’s chin, pecking their lips. “Always,” he said, stroking Alexander’s skin in a tender motion. 

Alexander laid back down in Thomas’ arms, Thomas holding him tightly and beginning to recount his day at work. The cat joined them again, wanting a part in the cuddling. 

With the backdrop of Thomas’ voice, Alexander glanced at the coffee table, with the cold cup of tea sitting idle on it. He closed his eyes, burying himself in nook of Thomas’ neck.