BEYOND THE THORNS

 

I sleep on the bed and wake up on the floor. It’s been happening for a month now. I wonder if it’s a symptom of some sort because, what in the world is this? How does a 34-year-old roll to the point of falling off the bed like this? It’s 3:32 am, and I don’t imagine I’ll fall asleep again, so I write, at least I try. Another day of beating against an empty gong and dancing to my own sound that nobody else seems to hear. I throw my notebook across the room. This room. I had high hopes for it. I used all the money I made from waitressing to purchase every piece of tech necessary to produce great sounds here. Yet here I am, putting off the call I need to make if I want to stay in this apartment. How did I get here?

I go back to bed and place pillow barricades on the side I usually wake from and fall asleep.

Thud.

Damn it! What is going on? It’s 4:43 am. I’ve only slept for less than ten minutes. It’s as if the moment I fall asleep, I enter another reality. I never remember my dreams, but I wake with a sinking feeling in my stomach, like my soul leaves my body in my sleep. Like I sink through layers of myself trying to reach somewhere I can never quite get to. I open my phone camera, hit record, and balance it on the dresser facing the bed. I’ve tried it before, and my phone fell before it caught anything. Praying for answers this time. I pull back the covers and close my eyes. I don’t feel myself falling asleep, but I feel the fall. 3 times in one morning, this is a record. I get the phone, grateful it’s still recording, and to my horror, I don’t roll off my bed; I get pulled by an invisible force. What in the world? The little hairs on my neck stand on end. This apartment suddenly feels narrow, like the walls shifted while I slept. I switch on all the lights and sweep the room with my eyes. What is this? My phone chimes and startles me breathless. It’s a text from my ex. Now? He is the last person I want to speak to. I almost ignore it before I catch the context of the text. Go to sleep, it says.

I call his number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I text back. What the heck? The text bounces back. I pace up and down. Did he pass by my street and see my lights on? Impossible. He left the country, and he couldn’t be back, or could he? I am definitely not going to sleep again, and I am definitely not sleeping here. I feel like I am losing my mind. Am I? The way you are going, your mind will snap, and you won’t know it. You need to slow down. The voice of my therapist echoes through the chaos in my head. Has my mind snapped?

I pack a bag. I am driving home. I guess the phone call I need to make will have to be a face-to-face conversation after all. I realize I’m in pyjamas at the parking lot, but who cares? I get in and drive. My eyes are heavy, so heavy I’m afraid I might fall asleep on the wheel. This does not feel normal. I turn on the music and open all the windows. It does not help. It’s like I am being pulled under. Hooooonk.

I awaken and steer back to my lane. I never feel myself falling asleep. This is dangerous. I pull to the side of the road, park, and roll up my windows. Just as I lay my head back, someone knocks at my window. I look up and it’s my ex. I’ve never felt so awake. I roll down my window, mouth agape, still too shocked to speak. He smiles.

“Good choice pulling over, you almost hit me.”

I close my mouth, blink, and shake my head. I am trying to wake myself up because this almost feels like a dream.

“What, what are you doing here?”

“No hug?” I get out of the car. Damn, I’m in pyjamas. He, on the other hand, looks like he’s coming from a magazine photoshoot. I hate that I still find him attractive.

“I am not falling apart because of you,” I say defensively.

“I didn’t notice you were falling apart, but I guess it makes sense, considering your hair looks like you’ve been inside a vacuum cleaner.”

I attempt to brush my hair with my hands.

“What would you know about being inside a vacuum cleaner?” I roll my eyes. He laughs.

“Let me drive you. Where are you going?”

“Home. And no thanks, I can drive myself. Thank you.”

“Not from what I see. Come on, for old times’ sake. Did you eat anything this morning?”

“You texted me to go back to sleep earlier. Were you at my apartment?”

“I saw your lights on, and I know you are a night owl, not a morning person.”

“What were you doing at my building?”

“I was passing by, Zanele, but I have been trying to reach you for a month now.”

“Something weird happened to me.” I get my phone, click on the video, and hand it to him. “That happened before you texted me.”

“Umm, you peacefully sleeping...oh, oh damn. Did you just roll off the bed?” He laughs. He shouldn’t be laughing. I snatch the phone.

“My side of the bed,” he says.

“No, I don’t roll...” I watch the video, and I clearly roll off the bed. “No, I...”

“Hey, are you okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, I am driving you home.” He pushes me gently around the car to the passenger seat, opens the car door, and helps me in. I am losing my mind. He drives, and it almost feels like he is still mine. I try my best to relax, I breathe in and out, and push my seat back.

“I am taking you to eat something first, okay?”

“Okay.” I am afraid to fall asleep, but I feel a little more relaxed now that he is driving. I am facing him and cannot help but look at him. His beard is overgrown, and so is his hair, but it looks good on him; he lost weight, though.

“What, your new girlfriend does not feed you?”

“Zee, for the 80^th time, I didn’t leave because I found someone else. I am not dating anyone.”

“Right.” I turn over to the window.

“Are you kidnapping me? Where are we going?

“I need to show you something?”

“Where are we?” It's awfully quiet, no cars or people in sight for as far as the eye can see. I almost feel like it is the apocalypse. “What part of town is this quiet? Where is everyone?”

“It’s Sunday, Zee. People rest on Sunday.”

I sit up. “Why did I think it was Thursday?”

“Zee, are you sure you are okay?”

“I never said I was okay.”

He parks by a worn-out building that used to be some sort of pub. He stares at it, and I think there are tears in his eyes.

“What is this place?”

“My dream," he says, quietly.

“Wait, you bought this for your restaurant? Does that mean you are back for good?”

“I never left, Zee.”

Why does that hurt more than knowing he’d relocated?

“So...you just didn’t want me?”

“Come on, let’s go in.”

“No. I am glad you finally got your dream. I hope it works out. Get out of my car. I’ll drive myself home.”

He gets out as I go around, closes the door, and stands by the door.

“I need to show you something inside, please. Do you trust me?”

I look up at him, and he almost sounds desperate.

“Two minutes.”

He takes my hand and leads me inside. The doors aren’t locked. It’s dimly lit and reeks of rotten eggs. Through a door that says staff only is an office that’s too clean to be part of that. There is a flat screen, a couch, and two portable simulators on a coffee table. He hands me one of the simulators.

“Put this on.”

“I am not in the mood to play games.”

“It’s not a game. I need to show you something, please, I don’t have much time.”

“Much time for what?”

“Just put it on, Zanele, please.”

I snatch it from him and put it on. I hate how realistic it is. I almost don’t know what’s not real. I’m walking on a bridge, and there is a bright ball of light ahead that appears to have a pulse. I feel pulled toward it, which reminds me of how I met Lwazi. Everything about him pulled me in. His smile, his height, the way he said my name. I don’t hesitate to enter the light, and I appear in a land that would pass for the promised land. At the risk of sounding cliché, this does look like heaven. I see all the colours, all the flowers. It looks like the perfect wallpaper, until I look down. I am too focused on what lies ahead that I don’t realize quickly that I am standing before a bed of thick and dried thorns. Suddenly, all that beauty feels so far away. I look back, and there is no way back; there is but a grey high wall blocking me. I grab my head, attempting to remove the simulator, but that is gone too.

“Lwazi?”

I am alone. What is happening? I hear a sound behind me, and the earth beneath my feet begins to shake. The wall shifts toward me, so fast that I’m afraid that if it hits me, I will die.

“Lwazi!” I scream desperately.

Where is he when I need him? I begin to manoeuvre through the thorns. The further I go, the thicker the thorn bushes become, and the further away the green looks. I am crying because the thorns have not spared me their wrath, and the wall is still coming.

“Lwazi! Help me, please.”

Perhaps I am calling the wrong person, so I start praying as I go. My pyjamas are torn in all the wrong places. My arms and legs drip blood. How could he do this to me? “God, please, help me.” Before me, to my left, appears a patch of thornless ground. I head toward it, and as soon as I step on it, it becomes a recording studio, one better than mine, with all the equipment. I am no longer in pyjamas, I am in Jeans, an oversized t-shirt, and boots, my go-to outfit in my favourite place. “Thank you, Lord,” I say.

A melody comes to life. I look around and see no one, but I recognize the melody. It’s the one I’ve been trying to complete for a worship song. I notice a screen before me coming to life, then lyrics. Only I didn’t write this. It sounds like a song the world would love, but it sounds nothing like me. I ignore the lyrics and sing my own, and the lights go off. The entire studio becomes pitch black. I sing the line I saw on the screen, “I am worth more than silver and gold...” and everything returns to normal. I switch back to my lyrics, and all goes black again. I understand.

What’s the worst that could happen? I sing some secular music, get a break from my circle of brokenness, and get back to worship. How bad can that be? No, stop. Do you hear yourself? Gospel music is not taking you anywhere, Zanele. Give in. How long have you been seeking a break? This would take off very quickly. Just give in. It’s not like they are asking you to kill anyone. No. Snap out of it. Come on, Zanele, imagine finally proving your mother wrong. No. No. No. You are slipping, Zanele. Get a grip, fight this. This is not who you are.

I remain in the dark for too long, hearing only the sound of my breath and the argument in my head. If I leave this place, what waits for me out there are thorns and a wall. If I stay here, I lose myself. If I lose myself, nothing will mean anything. I cannot stay here. I cannot see anything in this darkness, so I say their line, and the lights come on. I bolt toward the place the door is supposed to be, but I am sealed in. There is no door but four walls. I circle in my heel, panicking. You don’t give blood money to charity and expect redemption. I’ve heard my father say this when I was little, and for the first time, it makes perfect sense. I sing my line.

“What do I say when telling you you are worthy to be praised does not suffice...”

The darkness returns. I take a deep breath and take a leap of faith. I walk straight toward the wall, on the side where the door is supposed to be, and I am back in the thorns again. The ground still shakes as the wall continues to come for me. It is as if I never left. I am exactly where I left off, like the detour was nothing but a waste of my time. I still have my scars, my wounds, and blood dripping everywhere. Everything hurts. I almost want to return to that room, but if it means losing myself and my sense of purpose, I don’t want it. I keep running, and I almost don’t feel the thorns scraping my skin.

My strength begins to wane. I am losing too much blood. I can’t go on anymore. I am dizzy.

“Lord, help me,” I whisper.

A sudden wave of strength engulfs me. It does not take away the pain, but it helps me keep moving. Another patch of land appears on my left. Tempting, but I stay my course. Not every answer is from God; I don’t need to prove that twice. Lord knows I’ve fallen prey to those in my waking life. Is this really still a game? This pain is too real. I limp forward, eyes fixed on the green that seems to be shifting further and further. I don’t get it. “I give up, I don’t want to play anymore!”

Before me appears a table, on top of which lies a noose, a knife, pills, and a gun. Wait, no. This is not what I meant. The wall is no longer coming at me anymore. No thorns either, but this time, I remain in my torn pyjamas, and I carry the wounds. Dying kind of sounds good right now, but it is not what I meant. If I end it all now, all that pain, resistance to sing a song that could give me a break, would have been for nothing. My life would mean nothing. “Okay, I will keep going. Aww!” I am back in the thorns faster than I can say thorns. To my relief, I see the end of them. I could have died so close to the end of this suffering. I run and fall on my face in sand. It feels so good. I feel a presence over me and roll over. Lwazi. I get up quickly and punch him in the face.

“Aw. Why?”

I am about to show him my pyjamas and the blood when I realise I am clean, back to normal.

“What the hell? You made me go through thorns.”

“You went through thorns?”

“What is this, Lwazi?” His eyes focus past me, I turn around, and we are standing a few feet from where the green begins. It must have shifted closer because it was too far when I fell here.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. I walk toward it and realise Lwazi is not moving.

“Please don’t tell me it’s not as good as it looks. Are you coming?”

“I wish. I didn’t earn it, you did. I didn’t pass the table.”

“What table? How are you here?”

“The table. I am here because there is nothing here, but I can’t go there.”

“Chicken. Beating you at your own game.”

He smiles briefly, a smile that barely touches his eyes nor shows his teeth.

“We are in a game, right?”

“Go on, Zanele. Go to your promised land.”

I turn to run, but he pulls me back and hugs me tightly.

“Read our favourite book when you are home, I left something for you in it.”

“Lwazi, are you okay?”

“Never better. I needed you to see that it’s possible. I needed you to see the truth, and you did. I can rest now.”

“Rest from what? You are starting to sound like a ghost.” I laugh and turn away from him and run into the green. When I turn around to gloat, he is gone.

“You are in a game, Zanele,” I say to myself.

I see a patch of slab on the right, a lot like the patch of land in the thorns. I walk toward it, and as soon as I step on it, I appear in a studio, almost like mine, save for one new thing. A music book on my piano. I am in a black dress and heels. I sit and begin to play. It sounds better than my melody, and finally, the words I’ve been looking for come easily. The book is thick, with too many notes of different sounds. It’s like I’m given an outline of every song I’ll ever sing, and I don’t even feel guilty about it. It feels right. All that pain was worth it.

Knock, knock, knock.

I gasp awake. I am in my car. What? There is a traffic officer in my window.

“You cannot park here, ma’am.”

“Sorry.”

I wipe off snort from my mouth with the back of my hand as I gather my thoughts. “I am moving.”

He moves away. How am I here? The time is 3:30 pm. I pulled over to this side around 7 am. How is it 3 pm? I start the car and find my way back to my apartment. Did I dream all that? The songs, oh no, the songs, I don’t remember the songs. I almost want to break my skull open. I get to my apartment and try to call Lwazi, but his number is disconnected, which makes sense since he moved to a different country. Read our favourite book. Why do I remember that and not the songs? Come on, Zanele, you can do this. I go to the bookshelf, pull out a book titled "From the Grave " and browse through it, and a folded paper falls off it. My heart sinks. Something about this is beginning to feel bizarre. I didn’t pass the table. I unfold the paper, and it simply says, goodbye. Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in. I feel a little relieved; I had thought of worse. I want to go on about this day, but I lost time, and I feel like the things I did were real. Where is Lwazi? I go on social media to look for him, but if I am not blocked on all his pages, he has gone ghost. You sound like a ghost. I search for his family frantically, and they have all blocked me. I never noticed before. It’s been eight months, and I’ve never noticed because I was too broken to stalk him. I can rest now. I search his friends. His best friend seems to have blocked me. Did he get married, and no one wants me to know? I search his former co-worker and bingo, he appears, but damn it, his account is private. I hit follow and wait to be accepted. Something feels wrong. I try his mother’s phone; his entire family either changed their numbers or blocked me. We never fought. How is this happening?

I can hardly focus. Every chime gives me hope, and I almost always return disappointed, until this time. My follow is accepted. I scroll down his posts. I don’t know what I am looking for, but I think I will know it when I see it. My phone slips from my fingers and falls face down when I finally see it. A picture of Lwazi saying rest in peace. I can’t move. My knees fail to carry me, so I sit on the floor next to my phone. I pick it up and look again. The date is the same week he left me. I don’t understand. I get up quickly, get dressed, put on a beanie over my hair, and drive. I drive all night until I arrive at his mother’s house in the morning. She comes to meet me before I knock.

I don’t want to cry, but I cannot stop myself. I feel like I will suffocate if I hold it in. She stops, and I see it when her face falls.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” She moves near me, her eyes now glinting with fresh grief. I almost feel guilty for dragging her back like this.

“It was his last wish, baby.” She almost sounds like she has fully accepted his death. How could they leave me out of this? How could he?

“All this time.” I choke on my words. “I just found out yesterday. All this time.”

She holds me, and I sob helplessly. We both end up sitting on the dirty driveway, sobbing.

“I am so sorry,” she says over and over.

There is a question pounding my chest that I am afraid to ask. I think I already know the answer, and I am afraid to be right, but I also want to know for sure.

“How, how did he die?”

“He hung himself in his apartment.”

I don’t react. I refuse to let my mind show me his suffering.

“Will you show me his grave?”
“Of course. I’ll drive us.”

She helps me to her car. We drive out toward the graveyard. We don’t talk until we get there. She leads the way, and I follow until we arrive at his headstone. It even has a picture of him, the same one I saw. She leaves me there, reading the inscription over and over. I don’t understand this. Flashes of our time yesterday begin to create a story. From his dream that he never attained, to showing me there is life after struggle. I knew he was unhappy with his life as far as his career was concerned when we were together, but I never saw this coming.

“I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry,” I mutter.

I stand there for almost an hour, then turn away, back to the car, leaving him behind, just as he did me. I end up spending the weekend at his house. Turns out, it was Thursday, not Sunday, when I saw him again. Now that the crying wave has passed, I hate that I feel a sense of relief from the break-up. Turns out, it hurts more to think of him with another woman than it does knowing he is gone forever. I wonder if that makes me selfish.

I arrive at my apartment, and it feels like I’ve carried gloom into this place. I go to the one place that gives me joy and sit at the piano. As soon as I touch it, I remember all the notes and all the words. There is grief coming my way, I know it, but for this moment, it seems I am out of the thorns.