Not Tonight

 

As usual, it’s the soft touch on the door wakes me.

Insistent. Gentle. Like the cat I don’t have. The door opens in silence, just enough. Just what’s needed.

Light the colour of a bruise edges in, framing the space, filling the gaps. It comes in no further than the door. The light defines no shadows. Its colour does not illuminate. Travelling no further than it needs to, it is economical with its presence. Once again, just what is needed and no more.

On the edge of my consciousness, I count vague seconds. Or is it my heartbeat that is counting? Being counted? My breath? All are steady. Untroubled by this ritual. I don’t roll over. I don’t look to see, or strain to hear. I don’t do any of the pointless things anymore.

A weight slowly presses down on the vacant side of the bed - the cold side I turn to for occasional respite when flipping the pillow isn’t enough. Habit pulls me back to my side, and habit serves me now. I don’t roll over, or look to see. Nor do I strain my ears. I do not have to.

Whispers, softly sibilant, make promises. Cajoling. Offering. Gentle.

Come with us. Step outside. Find your place with us in the light. Warm. Safe. Let us look after you where it’s warm, where it’s safe. Let us care. Warm. Safe. Silent.

Not tonight, I say.

Out loud? In a whisper? In my head?

Softly, the whispers demure. The vacant side of the bed is vacant again. The light withdraws, the door closes, the ritual is complete.

We know, the soft whispers and the light and I. We know that, one night - maybe soon, maybe not - I will accept. One night, I will stand up from my bed, step to the door, greet and be greeted by the light. One night I will allow that I have nothing to lose. In that night I will gain.

I will be soft. I will be safe. I will be silent.