Withering Hope

I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. It'll take hours before I fall asleep, the way it always does. "I wish I had a book or something. I used to read a novel every night until I fell asleep."

"We can tell each other stories—things that happened to us," Tristan suggests. "I mean, that's what's in a book, right, stories? You go first. I’m sure you have funnier stories than I do."

I have the feeling Tristan's suggestion has to do with his fear of falling asleep and facing his nightmares. Maybe this will help ease him to sleep.

"Okay. But I suck, I'm warning you. I once had to babysit a friend's four-year-old sister. I told her some convoluted story about how monsters were hiding under her bed and she ended up throwing a fit. Her mom couldn't calm her for hours."

"You told a four-year-old a story about monsters under the bed?" Tristan asks, bursting in a guffaw.

"Yeah. I thought it would be more interesting for her if it had a creepy aspect to it. It was a fail. So, anything you're afraid of that I should steer clear of?"

"Hmm, let's see, except my own nightmares? No, I'm good. Nothing you say can top that, I guarantee."

"What kind of story would you like to hear?"

"When did you get your favorite present?"

I smile. I thought it would be hard finding a story, but I vividly remember the details around this event. "I got it for Christmas from my parents when I was seven. Or, well, from the postman to be exact. My parents had promised me they'd be home for Christmas, but a few days before, they called to tell me they wouldn't make it. I was upset for days and refused to talk to them when they called. They were supposed to buy me the porcelain doll I had wanted for ages, and I was mad because I was sure it would take forever for them to come home and give it to me. But it arrived on Christmas day. I was so, so happy. I remember sitting in front of the TV, drinking hot chocolate while clutching the doll. It was the best Christmas ever, except I di

dn't have my parents. But that wasn't unusual. The holidays were a busy time for them."

"You were alone a lot when you were a kid, right?"

"Yeah. I got used to it after a while, but I still wished my parents would be around more. Especially on days like Christmas. I remember watching Christmas movies and wishing I could have a family like that. I promised myself that when I had a family, I'd spend as much time as possible with them."

"And you thought of becoming a lawyer because the working hours are so short?"

"Hey, I have excellent time management skills."

Tristan snickers. "I bet. Just like Chris. How did you two meet?"

"We've known each other forever. I don't remember a time when I didn't know him. Our parents were friends, and we lived close to each other. Chris and I were best friends long before we became lovers. Sometimes I think we were more best friends than lovers."

"We should go to sleep," Tristan says with an uncharacteristic edge in his voice.

"You’re nervous, aren't you?" I ask.

He answers after a short pause. "Yes."

"Don't be." A rush of warmth fills me. I extend my arm, and the aisle between the seats is so narrow, I can touch his shoulder. He jerks away as if I've burned him. "Sorry. You don't have to be ashamed, Tristan. Or to continue to punish yourself for your bravery." He doesn't answer, but when I touch his shoulder again, he puts his own hand over mine, and for a while neither of us moves. I can tell he’s more relaxed. An incomprehensible sense of fulfilment spreads through me at the thought that I contributed toward that, and that I can make his hell a bit more bearable.

Then he falls asleep. I ponder why I want so much to help him. Or do I want to help him? Maybe the answer is much simpler. Maybe I'm just starved for human touch, and I'm not doing this for his benefit at all but for my own. No, I know it’s not that. His happiness simply makes me happy.

Unable to sleep, I start with a technique I often use to fall asleep: imagining a waterfall. It’s supposed to relax me. I spend what feels like an hour doing that with no improvement. I give up when Tristan starts moving, mumbling in his sleep. His mumbles turn to full out screams. Ragged and desperate. They make my skin crawl. I remain on my seat at first, covering my ears. But the terror that plagues him creeps into me until my heart hammers with nauseating speed and I can no longer stand to be across the aisle. I walk over to him, wedging myself in his seat. The seats are extravagantly wide, but I realize how much weight we’ve both lost if we can fit in it.

"Tristan," I say, my hand hovering over his shoulder, unsure if I should shake him awake. He seems half-awake already, his eyes blinking open from time to time, unfocused. His trashing becomes wilder, more frantic, sweat beading on his forehead. The words he is muttering are incomprehensible.

"Tristan," I say again, a little louder. He grips my hand, just like he did that night he had fever. His eyes flash wide open for a few seconds and then close again. In that land between dreams and reality, he shifts closer to me until his head is almost on my chest. His grip on my hand is so tight I'm afraid it might stop my circulation, but I don't have the heart to tell him to let go. Though his clasp doesn't relax, his thrashing stops, and his breathing becomes more even.

"So many died. I couldn't save them," he whispers, his voice shaking. "Help them."

"What happened?"

"We stumbled upon a group of civilians. They weren't supposed to be there. I was instructed to lead the group to safety, but I wasn’t successful. They were all killed. I see that scene again and again. It's more awful every time. In my dreams, I save them, then pick up the gun and kill them myself."

"It's just a nightmare, Tristan." I wish I could find more comforting words, because my heart breaks for him.

"No. It's a blunter version of the reality. I didn't pull that trigger. But I did kill them."