The Darkest Hour

by Wayne Mansfield

  “So did I pass?” I asked.

  Dr. Franklin smiled. “You’ve still got your sense of humour.”

  He returned to his computer and typed some more notes, so many that for a moment I thought he’d forgotten me.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “Better to get everything down while it’s fresh.” He leaned slightly forward. “Daniel, I think you do have depression—a mild form. I’m going to write you a prescription and…” He opened another drawer full of files and took out a small booklet. “I’ll give you the number of a psychologist.”

  I gasped. “A psychologist!”

  “Yes, a psychologist. You don’t have to make an appointment, but I’ll give it to you just in case. He’s very good.” He wrote down a name and a number on a small card then passed it to me. “Anyway, why the shock? Going to a psychologist doesn’t mean you’re crazy.”

  I took the card. “It’s not that,” I said. “It’s the money. They’re pretty pricey.”

  “You can claim some of his fee back on insurance,” Dr. Franklin explained. “So tell me, how’s everything else?”

  I shrugged. “This depression thing kind of overshadows everything else,” I replied. “But I guess I can’t complain.”

  Dr. Franklin nodded and smiled. “In that case, I think we’re done.” We both stood up. “But let’s stay off the alcohol. Alcohol and depression are a deadly combination. Especially for men. I also recommend exercise or sport, and try to get out a bit, mix with people.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the handsome doctor cut me off.

  “I know you’re a bit of a loner, but believe me, spending so much time alone isn’t good for you, especially at the moment.”

  I nodded. He was a doctor so he was probably right.

  I got my prescription filled and returned home. To an empty house. I was suddenly aware of how alone in life I really was. I spent the majority of my time within the boundaries of my property. My few other friends had regular jobs which got them out of the house and mixing with people. They had partners and some even had a child or two. I didn’t even have a pet. At least, I didn’t have one anymore. My beloved terrier, Mixie, had passed away a year earlier.

  More tears. They were almost as familiar to me now as my own face in the mirror. I walked down the hallway to the bathroom snivelling and sniffing, hot tears tracing silvery lines down my cheeks. Accompanying them were feelings of desolation, despair, and utter misery which had all appeared, as usual, from out of nowhere, and for no apparent reason. One minute I was at the doctor’s, being pro-active about my condition, the next I felt as though the world was ending.

  I washed my face and hands and swallowed down one of the anti-depressants.

  Work. Work. I willed it to work immediately. Instantaneously. I wanted to be rid of this curse. I wanted to feel like my old, boring self. Perhaps foolishly, I took a second tablet. I was desperate for the tears to end, for the empty feelings of crushing sadness to be gone. And I wanted it all to happen right then and there.

  * * * *

  I spent the remainder of the morning working. I was determined to finish the painting with the gull, which I’d decided to call “Freedom.” The gull in the air over the water, floating on the breeze across a vast blue sky represented such freedom, I couldn’t have called it anything else. When I added the final brushstroke to my masterpiece, a little after one in the afternoon, I stepped back to admire the completed work. For a moment I was captivated by that gull. In my mind I briefly felt the exhilaration and sweet liberty a bird like that must feel as it soars over oceans blue.

  Naturally there were tears. I wiped them away, though they continued to fall, and moved my painting to another easel at the back of the studio to dry. There was no sense of satisfaction. No joy for a job well done. I placed the canvas on the easel and left the studio feeling nothing but empty.

  After making a sandwich, I grabbed my beach towel and my phone, and carried the lot out to the back lawn. Nude sunbathing was something I did to unwind. However, there was an element of vanity attached. I thought I looked better with a tan. I stretched out on my back, enjoying the feeling of the sun’s rays beating down on my naked flesh. There was nothing like it. I imagined all that Vitamin D being absorbed into my body, healing it and making it healthy. I felt my skin tanning, becoming a deeper shade of brown. The sunshine made me feel so alive there was no room for tears.

  I was drifting in and out of a sun-induced slumber when I thought I heard a voice. I couldn’t be sure until I heard the voice again, louder this time.

  “Daniel Greene?”

  The voice sounded so near it made me sit bolt upright. I saw him immediately—a head poking over the side gate.

  “Oh I’m sorry,” said the man, looking away.

  I stood up, wrapped the towel around my waist, and walked to the gate.

  “Can I help you?” I said.

  I could feel a small frown appear on my brow.

  “Delivery for you, Mr. Greene.”

  I opened the gate. The uniformed man was carrying a large parcel wrapped in brown paper.

  “That’ll be the canvases.” I’d ordered them the previous day and asked for them to be couriered over. “Could you bring them to my studio?”

  I stepped aside and held the gate open. As the courier walked by I glimpsed the name on his badge—Oliver. I liked it. Dignified. Kind of old-fashioned and modern at the same time.

  “Where am I going?” he asked.

  I clutched the towel to make sure it didn’t fall off—although I’m sure Oliver had copped an eyeful when he was peering over the gate—and hurried in the direction of the studio.

  “This way,” I said.

  I wasn’t ashamed of my body. It was lean and athletic. I was a vegetarian and stayed away from processed foods so I didn’t have to work too hard at staying slim. I was naturally smooth except for the hair on my head and a thick thatch of dark blond hair around my cock. My only wish for my body was that I was hairier. I loved body hair on a man.

  Oliver looked as though he might have quite a bit of it. His forearms were thickly-haired and there was a small tuft of hair poking over the top of his shirt.

  I opened the studio door and Oliver carried the canvases in.

  “Just put them over there,” I said, pointing. “Against the wall. I’ll unwrap them later.”

  “You’re an artist,” he said, looking around the room.

  I laughed. “Right first time.”

  He laughed. His teeth, perfect. His smile, one that lit up his whole face.

  “Sorry about before,” he said.

  I furrowed my brow. “Before?”

  “When I looked over the gate and you were…”

  He left the sentence hanging. We both knew what I was…

  “If it wasn’t a problem for you then it isn’t a problem for me,” I said.

  He walked back towards the door and stopped in front of me.

  “It definitely wasn’t a problem for me,” he said, his smile growing. “I did go to the front door first, you know.”

  I could feel myself getting hard. My first instinct was to clasp my hands in front of me, but then I decided that would only draw attention to the area.

  I laughed nervously. “I like to get about in the nude,” I explained. “I live alone, so why not?”

  Oliver continued towards the door. “Why not indeed?”

  I followed him out and pulled the door shut behind me.

  “Thanks for bringing the canvases,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Just doing my job,” Oliver replied.

  He arrived at the gate and reached for the latch.

  “Let me get that,” I said.

  Oliver stepped aside and whether by instinct or luck, I happened to notice a large bulge in the front of his trousers. My eyes went from the sizeable protrusion to his face. He smiled nervously. I returned his smile and felt my cock, already semi-hard, swell behind the towel around my waist. He glance
d down and when he saw I was in a similar state of excitement, the nervousness disappeared from his expression.

  I opened the gate but didn’t move aside. Oliver had to squeeze by, his erection brushing against mine. I wasn’t sure, but I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles he lingered at the point when they touched. I felt my cock twitch and hoped he felt that slight, almost imperceptible, increase in pressure against his.

  “Have a nice day,” he said as he hurried back to where his van was parked in my driveway.

  I shut the gate. I felt elated. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so good. I pulled my towel off and went inside the house.

  Chapter 3

  I was never good at relationships. In fact, I’d only ever had one boyfriend—Mark, a mechanic with the thickest forearms I’d ever seen. They used to really turn me on. We lasted eighteen months before my insecurities drove him away. From that point on I found it difficult to get close to another man. That first break-up scarred me and left me even more insecure.

  If I was completely honest, the world frightened me a bit. Before Mark, I’d been the life of the party. I hadn’t spent a single Saturday night at home in over six years. If there wasn’t a party, there’d be drinks at someone’s house. If there weren’t drinks at someone’s house, there’d be a dinner party or an exhibition to attend. And whatever it was that came first, clubbing would inevitably follow after. In those days I couldn’t think of anything worse than staying home on a Saturday night.

  Now it was the preferred method of passing all my evenings.

  On this particular autumnal evening I was relaxing on the back patio with a white wine. I happened to close my eyes and let my head fall back against the white wicker back of my chair. In no time at all my thoughts turned to Oliver. I pictured his face—his strong jawline and the five o’clock shadow of a man who probably had to shave twice a day, especially if he was going out in the evening. His black hair and green eyes were exotic. And that bulge. I couldn’t forget that bulge or the way it had brushed against mine.

  As if on cue the tears came. I’d grown to hate those tears. So many had fallen I wondered why my body wasn’t in a constant state of dehydration. They were frustrating and annoying. Worst of all they were increasingly accompanied by thoughts that stripped me of any self-confidence; thoughts that raped my soul.

  Oliver. So perfect.

  What would a guy like that ever see in someone like you? He’s out of your league. Loser!

  But that bulge. Being a man, I knew it sometimes didn’t take much to get an erection. It could have been the temperature. It could have been an involuntary erection like those I often woke up with in the morning. Or it could have been…

  How I wanted to feel Oliver’s arms around me. To feel his lips on mine. I bet his breath was sweet. If I tried really hard, I could almost imagine it.

  My thoughts stirred me to a partial erection. But the black dog of depression wouldn’t let me enjoy a frivolous fantasy. What could he possibly see in a loser like you? Why would such a handsome, vital man want to waste his time with you? You really are living in a fantasy if you think he’d be interested in you!

  I cried into my wine. I cried until my sinuses were so clogged up with snot I could hardly breathe. Other thoughts came. Why weren’t the meds working? Why was I still so upset over nothing? Why did I hate myself so much? Where had all this self-loathing and misery come from?

  And then it happened.

  My mind slipped further into the pit. I took another mouthful of wine and wondered if it wouldn’t be better to die. To end it all. To just fall slowly into a deep sleep and never wake up. I imagined it would be such a relief, so peaceful, so nice to drift into the blackness and never have to wake up and face the tears, the misery, and the struggle ever again.

  No one would care.

  How would I do it? A bullet to the head would be instantaneous, but would I have the courage to pull the trigger? Slash my wrists? A lot of people did that. Soften the skin in a hot bath; get the blood flowing faster. I didn’t want it to hurt. Sleeping tablets? A lot of people did that too, but I’d read that drugs can cause severe cramping, and vomiting. One thing was imperative—I didn’t want it to hurt. Hanging? No. Too many times that didn’t work. I didn’t want to suffer or end up a cripple.

  At some point I realised I’d finished my wine. I got up and staggered drunkenly into the kitchen for more. In those dark days my liquor cabinet was usually better stocked than my fridge, although there was always plenty of chilled wine. It was a disgraceful way to live, but most of the time I was too drunk to care.

  I pulled the fridge door open and stared at the wine bottles. I was swaying. I knew it, but what did it matter? I stared into the fridge for a while, not really focusing on anything, before deciding I’d had enough to drink for one evening. I went to bed and stayed there until the following evening.

  I showered and made a banana sandwich, only because bread, butter, and bananas were pretty much all the food I had in the house. I flopped onto the couch and turned the television on. Reality TV. Yuk. Game shows. Even yukker. Reruns. Not in the mood. Commercials. Oh God! It seemed as though the quality of television was paralleling my life—both were going downhill fast. What separated us was at least I had some imagination.

  I padded back to bed and pulled the quilt up over my head.

  Hello, sweet oblivion.

  * * * *

  It seemed an eternity before I was allowed to have a good day. On a good day I had the usual tears and a general lack of motivation to be with people, but at least the suicidal thoughts, the thoughts of inadequacy and self-loathing, took a holiday. My head was a little clearer—clear enough to realise I had to do something in addition to taking my meds. I found my wallet and retrieved the number for the psychologist—Dr. Clarkson—which Dr. Franklin had given me. I took it to the telephone and proceeded to spend the next two minutes staring at it. What would it be like to see a psychologist? I wondered. Would he make me reveal all my weaknesses? Would he make me go to places I didn’t want to go? Would he make me feel violated?

  I took a deep breath and dialled. If I wanted to be well again, I’d have to take every chance to heal myself.

  I was surprised when the doctor answered himself.

  “Dr. Franklin gave your number,” I blurted out.

  I made an appointment for the following Wednesday and as I replaced the phone into the charger, I wondered if I’d keep it.

  I did.

  There was no couch like I’d seen in the movies. There was a dark wood desk in an alcove to one side and a pair of leather chairs positioned in front of it, turned slightly towards each other. Opposite were two chocolate brown armchairs facing each other across a coffee table with a potted fern and a box of tissues on it. I was offered the seat by the window and Dr. Clarkson sat across from me.

  “Would you like some coffee? A tea?”

  I was not a fan of tea and too nervous for coffee. “No thanks.”

  He made a noise of acknowledgement as he organised his clipboard.

  “Do you mind if I take notes?” he asked.

  “I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” I replied light-heartedly.

  A smile flickered on Dr. Clarkson’s lips.

  “Tell me why you’ve come to see me today.”

  “I’m desperate,” I said. I immediately felt guilty for the way it sounded. “Not desperate as in I’d have to be desperate to come to you. I mean…I didn’t mean that to sound the way it did.”

  I could feel the tears bubbling just below the surface. While the doctor was pencilling some notes, I took the opportunity to blink them away.

  “Hey, don’t worry,” he said. “I’m very relaxed. Take your time and don’t worry about how things come out.”

  I took a deep breath and began again.

  “I’ve been crying a lot,” I said. “It’s not normal for me. I cry at the slightest provocation. Even when there is no provocation. I cry when I’m happy. When I’m
sad. And I’ve been having horrible thoughts. Really horrible. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to be with people. I lie to my friends and tell them I’m busy when I’m not. And then…” Tear alert. “And then…” Three or four errant tears spilled over onto my cheeks. I blinked the others back, but for how long?

  “Take some tissues.” Dr. Clarkson pushed the box of tissues a little closer to me.

  I pulled one out, blew my nose, and took a few seconds to compose myself.

  “Are you okay?” asked Dr. Clarkson.

  I sniffed and nodded. “I tell my friends I’m busy and then I get upset because no one invites me out, even though I know they’ve tried to. It’s like I have two people in my head. There’s one person telling everyone to leave me alone and another telling me I have no friends, and that even the people who do call me are only doing it because they pity me. Or doing it as some sort of good deed. It’s like one part of my mind is logical. It knows what’s going on. But the other part, the darker, awful part, fills my head with stupid, negative thoughts.”

  The doctor was writing frantically, but glanced up at me whenever he asked a question. “And the not getting out of bed?”

  “That’s only some days. I have an exhibition coming up…”

  “That must be exciting.”

  I bowed my head and pinched the bridge of my nose to stop the onset of more tears. “You’d think so,” I said. “But I’m not excited at all. In fact, the effort to set it up and endure it…” I sighed and shook my head. “…is too much. Too much.”

  “So you’d rather forget all about it and stay in bed?”

  I frowned. I felt a flash of anger.

  “No, I wouldn’t rather forget about it,” I said, almost snapping at him. “It’s a very important milestone for me. My own exhibition. What I want is to not feel miserable all the bloody time. What I want is for the damned pills the doctor gave me to work so I don’t have to spend money I haven’t got on…”

  I stopped myself before I offended the doctor by telling him how exorbitant I thought his fees were.

  “I want to go back,” I continued, in a calmer tone, “to how I was before all this started. Can you help me?”