The night of the breaking.

  “Yeah, sorry, Nat. My stomach is messed up,” This is what Pete had said through the closed bathroom door. A barrier much wider than the cheap pressboard between them.

  “Oh, okay, no big deal,” Natalie replied, heading back into the kitchen. “Hmmm,” she murmured. “Fend for myself… maybe mac n' cheese?”

  She paused a beat, standing in the kitchen. Looking back toward the bathroom. “Should I …” She began, sensing that she might be missing something important behind that door. “No,” she decided. “He’s ok. I trust him.”

  Several minutes alone, (And after the red-cloaked Abaddon had made his exit) Pete eventually heard the sounds of Natalie preparing food. “This is my best chance.” He decided, and quickly snuck off to the bedroom, where he stayed, unmoving and undercover, waiting for his wife to go to sleep.

  Natalie checked on him once later that evening, “Must be the flu,” she settled on, seeing what she thought was Pete sleeping. Then, after going over her lesson plans, she turned off the lights and came to bed as well. She drifted off, blissfully unaware of her husband’s struggle. And Pete, lying still, next to his wife, listened for her breathing to deepen before slipping out, and making his way to the living room…

  …to battle, alone, in that first darkness.

  From the very moment his mind had been “Broken”, there had been a unique pattern to the psychic assault.

  First was always that sensation of existential collapse. Simultaneously, both suffocated by, and exposed to, an infinite universe.

  “I’m trapped,” he whispered through shallow breaths.

  “There’s no way out. Like everything is on top of me, but none of its real!”

  The chaos of this initial devastation inevitably brought on the second wave of misery. The cold physical torture of anxiety.

  “I’m gonna throw up.” He said rolling slowly from the couch to the floor. Sickening tension worming its way from the base of his skull, down his spine. Like an icy chain, it wrapped around his hips, into his lower abdomen. Nausea. Weakness. Trembling.

  “I can’t do this,” he cried to the silent shadows in the corner, as if they could somehow save him. “I’m gonna snap.”

  “I’m gonna…”

  “I’m…”

  And this was the third and most painful wave. The constant intrusion of disturbing thoughts and fears. Fears of failure, insanity. Fears that he’d reached the end of himself.

  That first long night, Pete genuinely believed he could “snap” mentally, his entire consciousness disintegrating, leaving him as a brutish, wild, dangerous … thing.

  “If I don’t concentrate, I could do something awful.”

  In his mind, he saw unforgivable acts. Hurting Natalie, as she slept in their bed. Opening the veins in his own freezing arms. “God! I’ve got to stop this!”

  But there was no stopping. No abatement, or mercy. These tri-fold waves of existential panic, physical misery, and intrusive nightmares, took turns torturing him, as he clung to reality with what was left of his ego.

  “What happens if I just lose control? Do I go crazy? What does that even look like? Do I even know what ‘crazy’ is? Do I run naked through town? Do I start smashing plates and climbing up the walls? Do I kill myself? Do I hurt her?”

  And there, once again: the fear of hurting Natalie. It loomed above all other terrifying hypotheticals. A lie brought by madness, but one that he couldn’t help but believe, transforming into a delusional threat that had to be resisted. So, he tensed his body head to toe, certain that any kind of relaxation would release the chaos burning inside. He squeezed his eyes shut, locking his jaw. Willing himself through the lonely hours. All to protect the person he loved most in the world.

  And at the same moment, only a room away, Natalie turned restless in her bed. An unusual occurrence for such a sound sleeper. Her mere existence somehow once again the lifeboat Pete was reaching for, trying not to drown.

  Finally, the dawn arrived.

  Pete called in sick to work. A small but meaningful mercy, to have that task out of the way.

  But there was still a morning to survive, and he needed to appear normal as he could so not to terrify his wife.

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  Pete forced his way through the usual routine. Talking through the simplest tasks. “I move my hand this way to press the button that heats the water.” Then, “The cups I use to drink are in this cabinet.” Every action, completed amidst mental “noise” as loud as a jet engine.

  Natalie stepped out of the bathroom, dressed and ready for the day (though a bit more tired than usual). “I want to get to work early and make sure the smart board is up and running.” She announced.

  “No big deal. I’m sick anyway.” Pete replied. “I’m just going to lay down.”

  Relief washed over him as she prepared to leave. The first positive feeling he’d experienced in fourteen hours. “If I can just stay sane for a few more minutes…,” he promised himself.

  “Alright, Hun,” she said. “Feel better. Call me if you need anything.”

  Pete watched from the window as she pulled out and drove away.

  Once sure that she wasn’t coming back, he sank to the floor, his crumpling body mirroring the “quit” of his tired mind. He rubbed his head against the living room carpet, as he allowed the disturbing sensations to wash over him.

  “I’m done. I know it. My life is over.”

  The staleness of the living room gave no reassurance, and his desperate monologue continued. “I’m gonna end up committed to a mental hospital, and honestly … that sounds pretty freaking great.”

  It was strange, certainly, but the image of a white padded room, a locked door keeping him in while the rest of the world remained safely outside, brought Pete a surprising sense of comfort.

  “God, it would be so easy.” he fantasized. “Just give up. No job to worry about. No self-respect to cling to. No dreams to chase. Just … nothing left to lose.

  “And Natalie would be…”

  But he could never finish the thought, and his leg kicked the coffee table in anger.

  “I can’t lose her,” he countered in frustration. Abandoning his fantasies of giving up. “She saved me. She believes in me, and I can’t just throw that away!”

  He stretched his neck, breathing deep, catching the sound of a bird’s song just outside the sliding glass door. It's warble (right on cue) brought Pete only the slightest distraction, but it was enough to ground him. To gird him in the fight.

  “Life with Natalie,” he exhaled, reminded himself.

  “Life with Natalie.”

  There were waves of tension followed by brief moments of respite, and amidst the rollercoaster Pete lost track of time. When he finally did glance at the clock, he panicked, seeing that there was only an hour left until she’d be home.

  “I’ve got to numb this,” he growled. “I’ve got to dull this somehow.”

  He considered what items were in the house that could slow his racing mind. “No beer,” he said, sitting up on the floor. “No alcohol.” He knew he was in no condition to drive. “What about cough syrup?” His eyes lit up and he rushed to the cabinet where they kept their medicine.

  But no luck.

  He rifled through various pill bottles, (heartburn medication, Tylenol, ibuprofen, multivitamins, Advil PM) “Wait!” He stopped. “Advil PM has an antihistamine!” Without a moment to consider the potential consequences, he swallowed four pills. “Please God,” he whispered, leaning over the sink. “Please God, let this work.”

  He went back into the bedroom and climbed under the covers. His entire being reaching out for the effects of the capsules. Praying for a miracle.

  Natalie arrived shortly thereafter, still believing Pete had been sick with a stomach bug.

  “Hey,” she whispered, poking her head into their room. “How are you feeling?”

  The blinds were drawn, and the room was dark. The cool, quiet in the air disguising the war happening under the sheets.

  “Sorry, Nat. I’m still pretty sick.” She heard his muffled voice reply. “I’m just going to stay in here for the night.”

  She walked to side of the bed and placed a hand softly on the mound of covers that was her husband. “That’s ok. You don’t have to apologize. Just rest. I’ll be out in the living room if you need me.”

  “Okay,” Pete replied, quietly. A sudden longing in his heart, being so close to his spouse.

  Moments later, he could hear her watching The Office (their favorite show) and he smiled shakily, grateful that he was able to spare her the truth of what was happening, at least a little while longer.

  And after forty-five minutes, the effects of the medicine finally took hold. The world turning dark, bringing a merciful end to those first twenty-four hours.

  6E+24

  “Of course, we knew he survived this first day,” Raphael said, “but it’s no less astounding. The concentration it must’ve taken! Like trying to thread a needle in the dark.”

  “While running from a lion,” Gabriel added. “I do feel for him, Raphael. Even if we disagree on what action to take, I feel for all of them, in fact.”

  “Them?” Raphael asked.

  “The afflicted,” Gabriel answered. “There are, how many, billions right now, struggling? Not ‘mind-broken’ by demonic forces, obviously, but afflicted, hurting in similar ways. Those who’ve seen terrible things or who feel the guilt of great mistakes. Victims of trauma or violent injury. People who have suffered loss, crippled by grief. A shift in chemistry. An errant spark in the circuitry of the brain. There are infinite causes in their world. A multitude facing difficult, sometimes lifelong conditions. In ways, prisoners of their own minds. The discomfort, the embarrassment, the fear.”

  “The loneliness,” Raphael added, quietly.

  “Yes! The loneliness! It’s crushing,” Gabriel continued. “Loss of meaning in the world, panic, intrusive thoughts, derealization. Actually, in those ways, Pete’s affliction is not so different.”

  “I agree,” Raphael replied. “In many ways it’s not. But the cause, Gabriel. The cause is different. The fact that he lives with no Light. That is different.”

  “But does that really matter?” Gabriel asked. “If two people experience the same pain, does it help either, debating which trigger is more ‘serious’? Don’t they both deserve support?”

  “Of course,” Raphael agreed. “But here’s something to consider, brother: Afflictions of the mind are the unspoken plague of the mortal world. Shame, and taboo allowing for devastation, in place of true healing. But just as cataclysm paves the way for the fittest to survive, what if these sufferings are not the sign of weak minds, but of the strongest. Learning to endure. Ready to evolve.”

  “Into what?” Gabriel asked.

  “Exactly,” Raphael answered.

  6E+24