Once in Every Life

The walls were closing in on him. Jack's breathing echoed jarringly in the darkened cell. He felt like an animal, caged and alone.

Think, damn it. Remember!

He paced back and forth, counting the steps from one

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end of the cell to the other. Behind his back, his hands were clasped in a sweaty knot. The clicking of his boot-heels on the dirty wooden floor sounded obscenely loud in the otherwise deadly silence.

Nothing. His mind was a huge, aching blank. He had no idea where he'd gone during the blackout, what he'd done. Images and thoughts spiraled through his mind. The blood on his shirt, the size of his boots, the number of nails in the sole. Johnny's dead, accusing eyes. The nearest he could tell, he'd been blacked out for nearly ten hours, maybe more. Long enough.

He went to the tiny window and clutched the iron bars. His whole body was trembling with the effort it took to try to remember. Leaning forward, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the cool metal.

Lissa. Her name came to him like a cool taste of water on a hot summer's day. His breath released in a tired sigh. Sweet Christ, he missed her.

You deserve to miss her. Turning wearily away from the bars, he started pacing again.

"Hey, mate. You okay?"

Jack turned, surprised by the jolt of relief he felt at hearing a human voice. He tried to smile at the jailer, and failed. "I'm fine. Thanks."

The man pushed the military-style cap higher on his head. "You want anything?"

A crushing wave of despair coursed through Jack at the casual question. Yeah, he wanted something, wanted it so goddamn desperately, he couldn't take a breath without aching for the loss. He wanted his life back. His wife, his family.

"No," he muttered.

"Suit yourself."

Jack watched the man go, suppressing a stupid desire to call him back?if for no other reason than to hear him

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talk. Anything, anyone, so Jack didn't feel so goddamn alone. The empty hallway mocked him.

He grabbed the rusted bars in shaking hands and banged his forehead against the cold metal. Help me, God. Let me remember. Then at least I'll know for sure. Please ... Heels shuffled toward the jail cell again. Wearily Jack opened his eyes. The jailer stood outside, arms crossed. "You shouldn't be banging your head like that. We don't have a doctor." Reluctantly Jack lifted his head. "Sorry." The man turned to go, then he paused and turned back around. "How'dya like some paper and a pen, mate? Give you something to do."

The doctors were wrong, Jack. You can't make it go away by forgetting about it. Only remembering will help you....

Fear settled in Jack's stomach as a cold, hard lump. "Well?" the jailer demanded. "You want to try it?" Just try, Jack. That's all I'm asking. Just try. Jack's fingers tightened around the bars. Tiny flecks of rust stuck to his damp palms. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I'll give it a try."

"Good." The jailer hurried to his office, then returned with a candle, writing paper, a pen and ink. "Here you go," he said, shoving them through the bars. Jack took them in trembling hands. "Thanks." When the jailer had left again, Jack set the candle on the uneven floor. The fecund scent of cold, damp earth filled his nostrils. Sitting cross-legged beside the light, he rested the Bible he'd been given on his lap and smoothed the paper on top of it. Then, carefully, he dipped the quill in the ink and brought the tip to the paper.

His hand didn't move. The ink-heavy tip remained poised. He sighed. He couldn't do it.

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Yes, you can, Jack. He heard Lissa's voice as clearly as if she were in the room with him. He closed his eyes, and for a heartbeat, felt the warmth of her body beside him, heard the quiet sounds of her breathing.

He touched the pen to the paper and began, very slowly, to write. / knew I shouldn 't be there. I didn 't believe in the war. . . .

The words came to him, some easier than others, some he had to skip entirely. But they came. He wrote and wrote and wrote. All the memories and thoughts and emotions he'd hoarded in the darkness of his soul for so many years came pouring through the quill's pointed tip.

He wrote until the candle was sputtering and burning low, and tears were streaming down his face, until the darkness was all around him, and shadows made the words blur before his eyes.

And still he kept on writing.

The next day dawned just as gray and dismal as the one before it, with thick, low-hanging clouds anchored to the metal-hued sky. Rain splattered the dirt road in huge, plunking drops and formed muddy puddles.