I wake up sobbing and calling out his name. My ears have served as catchment areas for the fat, salty tears that have slid down my cheeks during my slumber. I drop my neck on each side to let the pool of tears clear from each ear and I wipe my face with the back of my hand. Still sniffling, I look around searching and confused.

The room is pitch black. Have I gone blind in my sleep? I search desperately for a crack of light, a slight variation in shade or shadow. Nothingness. A void. I seek out the smallest chink of illumination to relieve my panic. All I see is black. A tomb. A crypt. A vault of endless dread and fear. I could be dead and drifting in a haze of oblivion forever more. I scramble out from under the covers and place my bare feet on the cool, polished floorboards. I feel gritty dust and grime stick to my heels and toes. I haven't swept in quite awhile. Not since he went away. There hasn't seemed to be a point to keeping things clean and orderly anymore.

The wind whips outside the bedroom window and the overgrown ferns strike the glass, as if trying to find a way inside to strangle me. I imagine their long green tendrils slithering around my neck and choking me to death in an unhurried, deliberate fashion. I need to turn the light on. It feels wrong to wake up crying and in darkness, haunted with memories and unnerved by my own room. I try to get up but the pressure on my right foot is excruciating. It is tingling and numb with pins and needles. I tap at my foot carefully yet impatiently, trying to get the blood to circulate properly. I need to get to the light switch. The darkness is suffocating me. I am trembling and afraid.

His warm mass is no longer beside me. All that lies beside me is an empty pillow that has a few of his hairs and a smell of his aftershave. I cannot reach out for a reassuring embrace. I need to turn the light on. The light will return the room to its usual cosy state of familiarity. A familiarity that is somewhat empty and lonely now. But familiarity all the same. I exhale slowly and try to stop the shake that has overtaken my hands. My foot still tingles. It's still too numb to stand and I'm not confident about hopping across the room in the dark.

I speak to break the silence. I speak to penetrate the murky gloom that encompasses me.
'The dressing table full of family photos stands at the end of the bed where it should be.'�
Yet all I see is black.
'My white wicker chair that Mum gave me is in the corner of the room where it should be.'�
But all I see is black.
'My coat and jeans from yesterday are sitting on the chair, because I'm lazy. I should put my clothes in the laundry, but I can't be bothered. These are the things that I know.'�
Yet all I see is black.
'Everything is going to be fine.'�
My voice bounces off the walls and returns to me full of uncertainty and fear.
'Everything is going to be fine.'�
But all I see is black. Everything is dark without him in my life.

The howling outside the window indicates that a storm may be brewing. A fermentation of dark clouds threatening to unleash their wrath onto the unsuspecting night. The ferns tap more urgently, begging to come inside. Scratching, whispering, menacing me. A lonely gecko lets out a sudden restless, clicking call. I do not know whether he is inside or outside my room. A whole family of them lives under the house. Sometimes they crawl through the cracks in the floorboards and turn up as unexpected houseguests. I have often entered the room at night to see a lizard face in front of me, startled by the sudden light and regarding me with quizzical suspicion. Despite their innocuous nature, they terrify me. I envision them crawling over me in my sleep. Nibbling at me nose. Letting their suckered feet traipse over my forehead. He loved them. He'd laugh at my shrieks and come up behind me to give me a tickling hug. He would catch the gecko up in his hand, cooing affectionately as if it were a beloved pet or newborn baby. He would try to make me hold one, teasing me and chasing me. I would lock myself in the bathroom and scream at him to put it outside immediately. This was our gecko ritual and we loved it.

Alone. He left me here alone. Alone in the bed. Alone in the house. Alone in the storm.

The gecko is probably on the wall above me. And he is not here. My foot has sprung back to life and yet I am suddenly hesitant to turn on the light. The loneliness overwhelms me. The melancholy kicks me in the stomach and causes sadness to unfurl from my heart. The times we lay together listening to the wind. The times we watched the curtains light up as a storm hit and the first fat drops of rain splattered on the tin roof. No longer here. No longer my gecko catcher. No longer my love. No longer a warm figure next to me in the bed. The pillow is still wet with my pathetic tears. My eyes have adjusted to take in the general shadows and shapes of the room.

Alone. He left me here alone. This bed no longer good enough. This house no longer good enough.

I don't want to cry again so I stand. I hesitantly take the few small steps needed to cross the room and reach the light switch. More grime sticks to my feet. I need to sweep the floors tomorrow. I need to start jogging before work again. I need to start facing things and moving on with life. I need to wash my mascara and tear stained pillowcases. I need to start getting rid of his things. The gecko lets out another eerie call. The ferns tap and click the glass. The wind wails and the first flicker of lightning illuminates the room briefly.

I can see. I am not blind. I am not dead. I am very alive.

I reach out and flick the light switch as the thunder cracks above. I see my dressing table full of family photos. I see my chair full of haphazardly thrown clothes. I see the gecko. He looks at me, blinking in the sudden light and puzzled to see me staring at him.
'Hello, little fella.'� I smile. 'Looks like there's a bit of a storm brewing out there tonight, so I guess I can't blame you for trying to stay in here.'�
He looks at me with his large, endearing eyes and pads along the wall closer to where I am standing by the light switch.
'You're not really so scary after all, are you little mate? Still, you gotta go back outside. That's where lizards belong.'�


I cup my hands together and reach out to grab the gecko. He stays still, observing me with his trusting eyes. I realise that I'm going to be just fine.
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(c) G. Hamer 2006

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