365 Days (Part 2) | ✓

300. Stars

300. Stars: Write about the stars in the sky and what they mean to you.

A continuation of Day 48, which I remain inordinately proud of.

The dreams startle me awake more than the crying. I have them frequently, and in the senseless terror entrapping my subconscious, I fight and struggle enough that I am able to break through the gates of slumber.

At first, I think it's the baby, but the baby doesn't cry that quietly. The baby doesn't whimper like a wounded animal.

Not animal. Human.

I roll over, the covers twisting around my legs as I do so, and stare into the scrunched up face of my husband. We've been married for almost a year now. I remember the ceremony; sweet and joyous, celebrating the fact that he came back alive. That he came back to me.

That was before the depression. Not mine this time, but his.

It’s getting better. I tell myself that, but I don't really know. I don't know if he's improving or just getting better at hiding it. The nightmares remain, though. It’s a wonder any of us get any sleep.

I shake him awake, touch his hot flesh with my hand, shake shake shake. "Wake up, wake up," I murmur. His moans and then suddenly jolts up, all frantic and panic. His reaction doesn't catch me off guard this time. I'm used to it.

"Shh," I say, rubbing his shoulder. He whips his head around to stare, wild-eyed at me. "Shh," I repeat.

Something in him slumps. I don't ask what his dream was about and he never tells me. I owe it to him not to be judgemental or pushy. He never was with me.

But he's different. The man who left me to fight Hitler isn’t the same one who came back and I don’t know how to feel about that.

He sighs, rubs his eyes and slides out of bed. His spot is cold and empty, like the spot in my heart after he changed. "I'm going outside," he says tonelessly.

I nod, not that he sees it. I watch him shuffle out. He’s expressionless today. It almost makes me regret his other bahaviors.

He never told me what happened in France. I never asked.

He'll recover.

But it's not the first time I've doubted that.

I lay my head on the pillow again. It’s lonely here, in a moment too painfully real. I can't escape from it, can't dream it away. It’s nothing like poetry, but I guess nothing is. Poetry is the aftermath, when we beautify the blood that drips from wounds. But I'm not there yet.

I feel so alone. Thudding on me. Pounding on me. Helpless. I have lost my lover, but the enemy that claimed the sweet, romantic daydreamer was himself.

Restlessly, I climb out of bed and cross to the bassinet, where Amelia sleeps peacefully. Stay little, darling. When you grow up, the world decides it's time for you to hurt. I stroke her hand, ten perfect fingers, all velet soft and pure and new.

Then I cross to the window and look outside. He’s out there, I know, because I can see him, standing in our yard and staring at nothing. The moon glows down upon his prone figure.

Who was this man?

Then he slowly raised his head and stared at the stars. They were bright today. "Think of me when you look at the stars," he had said once upon a time, before he left.

Deliberately, he raised his arm and reached to the heavens, his palm open and facing up like he meant to accept a sprinkling of stars.

He will come back, I thought. He will.