Wound

winter waves
numb the pain
of an old wound

 

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Photo: Thor’s Well, Cape Perpetua, Oregon, c.b.w. 2015

Words: haiku/senryu, c.b.w. 2018

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Hide Out

I.
smiling to stop
questions that pry
what hurts is mine

II.
a familiar face
walks through the door
I turn away

III.
2 a.m. – a storm
rages my dreams
keep me safe

 

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Image: The Storm – Theodore Gericault, WikiArt.org

Words: senryu, c.b.w. 2016

Part of the 2016 April Poem A Day Challenge (via Poetic Asides on Writer’s Digest) for the April 9 prompt: hide out.

On The Mend

Wounds can heal, time guarantees,
the bleeding stops, the sting subsides.
Delicate stitches knit the seam closed,
until a scar remains, crooked tattoo.

The pain stays hidden, perfect facade,
often ignored but never forgotten.
Without a salve or primal scream,
left alone it grows and grows.

One final straw, the wound rips open
raw and exposed to unforgiving air.
Shivering cold, broken spine,
time can’t help, stitches unwind

Raindrops fall and clean the cut,
branches reach out, offer a crutch
Fluttering feathers, fragile cocoon,
nature’s Spring needle, work begins

The Northwoods, near Land O’Lakes, Wisconsin
Photo by: c.b.w. 2013

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c.b.w. 2013

The Story Behind Solitary Confinement

The votes have been cast in To Know or Not to Know and the win goes to full disclosure of the ailment afflicting the character and the inspiration behind Solitary Confinement. Thanks to everyone who took the time to read something a little different and vote in both polls regarding this piece.

To catch up or reread the short story discussed below, please visit this link:

Solitary Confinement

If you don’t want to know everything about what inspired this story, stop reading after this point!

* * *

It’s often said that every piece of fiction has a grain of truth nestled somewhere deep within the story and characters.  In the case of Solitary Confinement, I took something I knew rather well and turned it into a metaphor that explores the strength of the human spirit when pushed to extremes.

For a number of years, I struggled with the pain of migraine headaches. It always bothers me when someone arbitrarily uses the word “migraine” to describe a really bad headache.  Migraines are an entirely different kind of pain that effects every part of the body.  In my case, the pain was debilitating and quite terrifying.  The descriptions of pain that I used in the story, (i.e. ants armed with lightening rods, the ice pick, the sledgehammer, a thousand baseball bats, muscle seizures, etc.) all came from my migraine journal that I kept for my doctor.  These descriptions gave me the starting point I needed to expand the emotional sense of what its like to experience overwhelming pain.

The emotional element of this story is based solely on the premise of feeling helpless.  This is where fiction comes in as a way to exaggerate the loss of control that comes from being unable to stop the pain.  I put the character on a hardwood floor to remove any possibility of comfort and to emphasize the paralysis created by the migraine.  It was important to establish this right from the start, especially for readers who have never experienced an affliction of this magnitude.

The scattered pills just out of reach are a mechanism to show desperation.  On a personal level, this has a lot of meaning to me because it reflects my own experience of never finding a magic fix to stop the migraines.  By putting them out of her reach, my intention was to create an illusion of help that doesn’t exist.

Hallucinations are one of the more frightening elements of severe migraines.  The more intense the pain, the more pronounced they become.  The references to shadows that aren’t there and voices whispering are also derived from my journal.  Extreme pain does funny things to your senses and messes with your perception of reality. To showcase the fear this creates, I opted to elevate this phenomenon by creating a less obvious hallucination that even the reader believes is real.

The main character makes several internal cries for a nameless man:

He said I could call . . .

I need him. I need help.

Her desperation for his presence escalates as the pain intensifies.  I purposely increased her internal dialogue to show her ever-increasing helplessness and give the impression that this man exists.  In truth, he is not real. The man she calls for represents a cry for help that can’t be heard. Physical pain may be paralyzing her, but she is also trapped by emotional turmoil and anxiety brought on by fear.  She is entirely alone in this situation, which creates a strong need for someone to help her.  In effect, she needs him to be real in order to cope with the pain.  This concept is furthered by the character’s belief that she’s done something wrong and the pain is her punishment.  His forgiveness would make the pain stop, but just like the pills he remains out of reach.

I never fully reveal this hallucination in the story because I want the reader to see him the way she does.  In this sense, the reader falls into the same view of reality that she experiences.

Overall, the character’s heightened level of pain is meant to reflect a state of helplessness when something is out of our control.  No matter how much we hope, need, or crave, there are moments when those things are irrelevant.  To that end, the only thing we have left is the ability to hold on with all our strength.

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Call it writer’s curiosity, but what was your interpretation of the story?

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c.b. 2012

Solitary Confinement

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying on the floor.  Wasn’t it only a moment ago that an ice pick sliced through my skull?  My muscles are stiff and my cheek is slick with sweat where it meets with the floor.  I can’t move.  There is nowhere to go, no chance for escape.  Any attempt worsens a pain that can only become more unbearable. The pills meant to make it stop lay scattered, just out of reach.  The pain knows this, so I close my eyes and wait.

The ants start to crawl under my skin.  Their tiny legs are armed with lightening rods and stab relentlessly wherever blood flows.  The worst part is its only just begun.  The ice pick jabs from inside my head; its sharp point rips at my mind with persistent fervor.  The pounding of my pulse brings new waves of blinding agony.

He said I could call . . .

My body recoils in a violent fit.  One hand grabs onto my head, while the other tries to quell the ants that refuse to stand still.  My knees snap to my chest as a vicious cramp seizes every muscle. I wait for the blackness to come.  A dark void where I am lost and cannot feel. Hallucinations of haunting images flicker and phantasms of pain darken my view. I want to scream, but a clenched throat chokes my voice.

Help . . . I need help.

My limbs won’t loosen and my thoughts shatter. I lock myself away in a sunless tunnel.  It’s the only way to hide and protect what’s mine. There’s a chance I’ll never find my way back, but where else can I go?  I long to hear footsteps that will find me and save me from this hell.

But they will not come.  He left weeks ago, tired of what I could not fix.

My fingers cling to knotted strands of hair.  Another wave strikes, bringing with it a thousand baseball bats that beat the life right out of me. Shadows that don’t exist move in the corner of my eye.  Whispers that aren’t really spoken sound in my ear.

Where is he?  Why isn’t he coming?

There are no footsteps.  The blackness offers no release.

Something warm drips down my chin.  Red falls to the floor in tiny drips.  Not even my lips are immune to the havoc that reigns – my teeth cut right through.  He always knew what to do.  When I couldn’t take care of myself, he was always there.  But, not now.  I can’t remember why.  It’s lost to the pounding that won’t stop.

Didn’t he say to call him whenever I needed?

I need him.  I need help.

But that was before . . . he left.  A sledgehammer slams into my temple.  A white flash wipes out my vision.  The only sense I have left cries from the torture.  Please let me go. The hardwood floor, so unforgiving, pushes into my joints and offers no comfort.  Yet, I cannot leave.   Is this my punishment?  If he were here, I would apologize.  And beg for forgiveness.

Help . . .

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Special Note: Due to some changes made by WordPress in the comment section, be sure to uncheck the box that says, “Notify me of follow-up comments via email,” if you do not wish to receive e-mails for every new comment on this post.  At the moment, the box is checked as a default, (and I can’t fix it).

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c.b. 2012