Half-life – Jamie D Stacey
It hangs over us, sprays the room all white all nothing. The lightbulb flickers; sometimes light, sometimes not. Light. Thereâs a small table opposite with blood-red orchids; blooming â and plastic â a promise both alive and dead all at once. Dark. I shuffle in my seat; my wife is on her side and Iâm on mine, despite this small sofa squashed in the corner. Light. I look at her, then the room, then back up at the bulb; take in everything in one breath. Itâs a curious thing; shaped like a seed, but unable to grow and give off any light. Dark. Faulty, only half-awake, half-alive. Something you take for granted will work, then youâre left in the dark without. Light. Thatâs what we thought; thatâs what I still hope. Dark. Does she still hope? From the sofa everything feels far away, despite the room. Maybe itâs the black of the sofa stealing the little light left that creates the illusion. Is this my fault? I could never reach it, no matter how many tries. She doesnât seem to notice though. Iâm on the edge of my seat; sheâs sunk into the depths of hers. The cheap leather rubs against my skin; she hangs back, like sheâs her shadow and no-one, nothing else. Light. A tap at the door and I think I see her stir; itâs just a trick of the light, and no-one else enters. Dark. Just us, the bulb above, and life caught between all white all nothing.
Light. The bulb clicks too, like a cricketâs cry. Makes me think of last summer; Ăle de RĂ©, the two of us on the beach, September sun setting, this halo disk in the sky above and crimson haze bathing us as we rolled through the salt-and-pepper sand and cried out. That kind of cry. Dark. Here itâs different; the ebb and flow of waves has gone, and the light spots and bleeds. Light. I look for the switch â bring new life to the room â but thereâs nothing. Dark. Just this faulty bulb dangling from the ceiling, out of my reach. Light. On the beach last summer, weâd planned it all. Dark. Sheâs looking away, like she doesnât want to remember the cricketâs cry.
Dark. Nothing, I say. Dark. Nothing, she says. We keep to ourselves, the bulb blistering overhead, and the light wilting unlike the orchids that never were. Click. Itâs the midwife, the door shutting behind her. She takes a seat opposite; the lightbulb flickers then fades. My wife shifts in her seat, her hand beside mine. Dark. âSorry to keep you both waitingâŠâ
Light. I take her hand, hold onto it â and when the light shudders â squeeze it tight. I want to find the switch, just turn this light on, to fix it. Fix everything.
There are documents on the midwifeâs lap and, looking at us, she gives this sort of smile.
Dark. The bulb goes out. Then I feel â
feel my wifeâs hand
squeezing back
âŠ
