Night shifts black

Day Sixteen.

I give Luke’s door a gentle courtesy knock, but when he doesn’t answer after two attempts, I let myself in. The room is dark, except for a small lamp on an end table, so I assume he is still in bed. Not wanting to disturb him, I grab the remote and plop on the couch, turning the volume low.

There isn’t much on network TV that interests me so I try the movie cha

Shortly after noon, it suddenly occurs to me that he may not even be in his room. I mute the TV and begin my self-tour of his suite. I’d never explored his accommodations apart from the main area, and figure now is as good of a time as any to satisfy my curiosity about how an ex-rock star lives.

I figured the place had to be large. After all, basic math skills illustrate that, given the huge structural dimensions of this hotel and the tiny number of doors on this floor, each door has to be hiding a massive space. I was always good at math, but I’m still not prepared for what I find as I venture from the enormous open room of the main living area. I don’t understand why a hotel room needs a corridor, but it has one. Two, actually, I learn, as I reach the end of the first and realize another juts to the right. I count one bedroom in my journey, which contains an unexpected custom stall shower along one wall of the room. The random bedroom-shower throws me for a loop, and I stand staring at the floor-to-ceiling glass, intricate stonework, and multiple jets. I spend a long time wondering why one would want to shower in their bedroom rather than the attached bathroom, how many people it was intended to accommodate at one time, and what I’d have to do to convince Luke to let me test it out. I notice the bench and controls, and suddenly realize it’s a sauna, as well as, a shower. I’m even more impressed, if not confused, about the floor plan. I see no sign of human occupation, however, so quickly determine this is a spare room, not Luke’s. Clearly, a guest of a guest would need a private wall shower.

The next room is an office. Not the particleboard desk with a lamp and hospital waiting room chair I’m used to, but an actual office. I see a giant oak wall unit with matching hutch, a solid hand-carved workstation that would make a lawyer jealous, and an actual, honest-to-goodness, coordinating filing cabinet. Because every rock star needs a filing cabinet when they travel. I smirk, imagining Luke sifting through three-tab folders and hanging files with his ratty tee, ripped jeans, and glass of whiskey in hand. I’m not surprised that it appears I’m the first to even open the door to this room.

The next room is just another bathroom. There’s a powder room off the main space for visitors, but this must be for those who get lost touring the suite and can’t find their way back without a break. It’s decorated in the same rustic stone style as the other bathing amenities I’ve seen, so I don’t waste much time here.

Only one door remains, so I’m certain it must be the master suite. I hesitate as I approach the open doorway. It’s dark inside, which leads me to believe it’s probably vacant as well, but I’m still not totally comfortable about invading his space. The other rooms were easy. They didn’t seem like his, for some reason, as though they still belonged to the hotel and he couldn’t care less what happened to them. This room though…

My curiosity wins out, and I move toward the darkness.

The stench of alcohol assaults me when I enter, and I almost cough. Despite everything I’ve witnessed so far, I’m still surprised by this. Luke seems so together most of the time. He laughs and jokes and makes his way around the city. I’m very familiar with the bar in the main space, but the idea that the bulk of his drinking occurs back here hits me harder than I expect.

“Oh, Luke,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head.

“What?”

I freeze. “I…I’m sorry…I was worried.”

By now my eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough that I can make out the lump on the massive king-sized bed centered against the wall.

The lump doesn’t respond, and neither do I, not sure if I should apologize again and leave in shame or call an ambulance.

“I’m fine,” he lies. I know he’s lying. I can hear it in his voice.

“It’s after noon.”

“So?”

“So, you’re still in bed. Have you eaten today? I’ll order something for you.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Are you sick?”

“No. Just tired. I don’t want company today. Sorry.”

“Luke…”

“Callie, I don’t want to be a jerk, but I need you to leave me alone right now, ok?”

It’s not ok. His voice is trembling. I know now he wasn’t sleeping.

“Luke, please. Let me…”

“Just go!” he shouts, and the lump transforms into a half-man as the comforter reveals a head and torso.

I know I should, but I can’t.

I pause, my mind racing furiously, and yet in no clear direction at all. I get the heavy sense that I’m standing at a crossroads, although I suspect it’s not just one on my journey.

I choose a path and sit on the edge of the bed. I don’t look at him because I know I won’t like the anger and accusation in his eyes, so I face the wall instead, staring in silence, daring him to physically remove me from his presence. I am fairly confident he won’t because I know where he is right now and it’s a place that rarely has the energy for such things.

“It’s a curtain,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t respond, but I know he’s listening. I turn and glance at him briefly so he knows it, and has to accept the fact that I’m not leaving until I’ve finished my speech.

“Depression, that is,” I continue. “People who’ve never experienced it think it’s a mask, but it’s not. It’s a curtain. And when it falls, it shuts you off from your life, plunging you into complete darkness. There you stand, arms flailing around you, reaching for anything to find your way back. But after exhausting yourself, grasping at only more darkness, you give up and drop to the floor in resignation.

“And so you sit. You and the blackness. You and the accusations. You and the self-hatred, the lies that become truth, the failure and pain and hopelessness and black thoughts that twist through you, impaling you to the floor. There you bleed, alone in your black hole, convinced the audience on the other side of the curtain has given up and gone home. The show is over.

“Before you know it, you realize the curtain has turned into a cement wall, and you couldn’t escape the darkness even if you wanted to, but by now you don’t care anymore. What’s the point? There’s nothing waiting for you on the other side, and even if there was, you’re such a useless waste of space that you wouldn’t dare to contaminate the world outside with your cancer anyway.”

I stop, my eyes burning, my voice heavy in my throat.

“You feel like crying all the time but you rarely do. Depression isn’t sadness; it’s numbness. You don’t have the energy for sadness. You can’t sleep. You don’t eat. You have no desire for the things you used to love, but it doesn’t matter because you can’t love anyway. You feel nothing, just a dull, heavy ache that makes it hard to breathe sometimes, let alone get up to start the search again. You fantasize about disappearing, just erasing your pointless existence and sparing the Earth from your toxic presence. By now you’re so exhausted just from the effort of living that there’s nothing left to live it.”