Balance

"I'm going to go blog for a bit." I rolled onto my side and sat up in bed, swallowing hard.  I didn't want him to see me cry, or to ask why I was.  Mainly because, heck if I knew, and partly because I did know.

"I'd wait a while," Tristan replied, stretching an arm behind his head.  "I'm telling you a lot of stuff, opening up a bit more."

Moments like this, where Tristan almost seems to talk about himself in third person, ALMOST sharing my own perspective, are rare and far between.  He was right, I needed to milk this golden opportunity for what it was worth.  "Yeah, you're right." I lay back down and curled up under the quilt, turning to face him.

"No, no, it's okay...." He turned to face the wall, pulling the covers up over his face like he does when he's really going to sleep, but I wasn't going to believe that move until I heard some real, deep snoring.

We talked for another hour or so, about things which I hesitate to write here.  And the more we talked, the more pissed at myself and the universe I became.  Self-loathing is never a desirable trait in anyone, and I was determined to find the good in the situation, but I couldn't.

Many nights ago I had a dream that Tristan and I were travelling to a new home, a new city, and it resembled something out of a science fiction book series I once read.  Ancient but futuristic, made of clay and brick and stone but populated by modern people in older dress (doesn't make sense when I write it, but it makes sense in my head).  When we had reached the outer gates, there was a sudden attack by warriors scarred and painted with blood and soot, and they were attacking civilians trying to get into the city, immigrants like Tristan and myself.  The city's leader came out to fight, and it was a friend of ours (don't laugh but he reminded me of Lando from Star Wars but in more Romaesque gear).  We fought alongside him, taking down the invaders, but in the midst of the attack our friend was killed by several arrows.  Tristan and I were captured.


Images blurred in my dream, and what I could make out was a small adobe village, much like a pueblo, in which the prisoners were kept.  One prisoner per room, and Tristan was below mine while I was below a priest.  Sometimes men, more like thugs, would come to my room to "breed" but they could not get past the door.  I would either fight them out or just stand there and scare them out by staring.  


Then one night (in the dream) Tristan and I were taken to an arena, an amphitheatre made of bones and illuminated by the deep red of the setting sun.  We were bound and placed upon a high platform made of bamboo, flexible and flimsy that teetered when either of us moved.  The leader came out, and he had me yanked forward, my feet extended, and  bear skulls were placed on either one.  In my dream's mind I remembered seeing other prisoners, mostly priests and other clergy, screaming as their feet were cut and/or burned off and replaced with animal skulls.  I thought for a moment my feet were gone, but somehow I had managed to hide them in my pants and the bear skulls were fitted to my legs.  


"The whip! The lash! The forever sting of pain on our backs!"  The leader yelled into the dusk and brought a flogger down on my "feet", cracking the bone and grinning with sick pleasure at my ensuing pain.  But I didn't feel anything.  I just watched until Tristan nudged me, and I realized I'd better show signs of pain before they caught on, so I faked groans and cries of agony.  


"Don't over-do it," Tristan hissed in my ear.  I fought the urge to roll my eyes and did as he said.


The bear skulls were taken off and replaced with wolf skulls.  "The rock, the bashing, the stone on our heads!" The leader began smashing a large rock onto my fake feet, and in the amphitheatre skeletons of wolves rose on all fours and howled at the sky.  "Always bashing, always smashing, always pounding on our heads!" 


I was filled with a sadness for the wolves, who howled in lament and yearning for life.  I wanted to give them life again, flesh and blood, but I couldn't do it at all even if I was untied.  This display made me realize the purpose of the torture: they wanted me, wanted the prisoners, to feel their pain and devastation at being forever dead, forever apart from the world of the living.  They wanted us to suffer as they suffered, but try as they might, I just couldn't.  


Finally Tristan had formulated a plan (who, by the way, wasn't touched in any of this and mainly because the leader began to assume he was just as dead as the rest of them).  "Act up," he whispered as the leader turned away to get the next set of torture instruments.  "Get him to focus on you."


I started to protest but he gave a slight nod to the left, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a rescue party sneaking into the amphitheatre and heading towards us.  So I gave it my best and struggled to get free of my bonds just for the sake of drawing attention.  The platform wavered and swayed, but Tristan used his weight to keep us balanced.  He reassured me that he wouldn't let us fall, and a grim smile crossed his face when the leader started to climb the ladder to personally punish me.  We counted down from ten and when the leader's chest was above the platform, we both kicked as hard as we could with both legs.  This sent the leader, and the platform, flying forward, but Tristan threw himself back and the platform rocked back making the leader fall but not us.  Tristan somehow worked his hands free and helped me with mine, and we peered over the edge to see our rescue party engaged in battle with our captors.


The next thing I remembered we were safe in a camp, on our way back to the city.  The men who retrieved us treated us kindly and made sure we had everything we needed.  Then one of them asked us what happened in the three months we were captured, and in a blur we were back in the ghetto to get the other prisoners.  It was there the repressed memories came back to me, and I cried in agony as I told of the blood that dripped through my ceiling every night, the screams I would hear coming from the priest above me as he was beaten and tortured every day.  I swiped my hand against the adobe wall and the blood was still fresh.  I felt myself snap.  I went into a frenzy of screams and sobs, and someone behind me came up and pulled me into their arms to keep me from hurting myself.  Amidst my own screams I thought I heard Tristan telling me we were safe, we would be all right, but I blacked out.


Sometime later in the dream we were back at the city, but as we approached the gates I suddenly remembered doing something just as the attack had begun.  "My baby!"  I looked at Tristan, panic welling in me.  "I had a baby!  I need to go get my baby!"  And in my mind I remembered handing my baby daughter to a couple who were fleeing the attack and on their way to a city, and they were the only ones who'd escaped without harm.  I turned and ran to the other city....

When I woke up, I was shaken.  It had been over a year since my last vision.  Before I met Tristan, I had visions every night.  I could even know what was going to happen the next day, all the mundane details from what the school cafeteria was going to serve to what was going to happen on the small field trip to the nursing home.  But after meeting and talking with Tristan, I prayed to God for a reprieve and shut myself off.  Once in a while I would have a vision to set me on the right path when I got confused, but nothing like this.

Mom talked with me about it, and helped me interpret what I was being told.  Tristan keeps me balanced, saves me from myself, and in the midst of death and under the pressure of those who are already dead from their own deeds, we keep each other alive.  He is close to the cold numbness that the death of a soul experiences, but he's not dead yet.  And even though there are times where I swear he's a heartless corpse, I know he's a good man and when he admits it, he's on my side.

The pain I experience, the absolute fury, is that ours would be a fantastic story if it wasn't so effed up.