The Nightlamp

Like a wail in the back of an inflammed throat came that protracted noise once again. Interminably, the rhythmic pitch of pounding grew louder as if several loose stones had swished themselves against the larger cylinder of his room. Already, the steady rap of a hammer's edge oozed from night's blackness disparate as a voice muffled in protest against an exhausting load.

Again, the unyielding barricade of sound renewed itself much as a headlight might fall against the path of a dazed woodland animal. The same enervating crust of unreality accompanied this sound as must, he imagined, light that focused itself upon a stunned rabbit at a roadside clearing.

Steady now, it peaked again after a small hiatus interrupted only by the staccato bumping of his own heart within thin visceral walls. Catching the bed-sheets in his hand and moving to switch the nightlamp on as his feet touched floor, Durfield let his eyes grow accustomed to the bright light now filtering across the room. Same turmoil as with the ruddy animal immobilized in its tracks, he thought, excepting now the darkness coiled in wait instead of that speeding car. Same fate, he pondered, nearly aloud. No, not really, because I have a vestige of control here, he reassured himself. The lamp-switch allows me, of course, to commandeer the ignition keys to this vehicular room. I have mastery of my environment, however limited. The fawn or hare has no more free will in that regard than a stone spinning upon itself through orbital space. The animal freezing in its tracks is but a by-product of its own misshapen destiny - a projection of inward fear itself. Instinct knows only one route when threatened, he theorized. I, at least, have that avenue of self-preservation plus the dimension of reason. That and that alone separates me from the splattered remnants of a deer against the highway. Its over-specialization dooms or pre-dates its response. So very predictable, he mused fingering the face of his big, green lettered clock. I'm different, he began reassuring himself adjusting his eyes to the flooding light a little less nervously. I have the calling card of reason plus an instinctual nature. The two should compliment one another. Why, take that accursed noise. I can attempt its categorization in hope of dispelling the fear of the unknown. What's more, I can move to lessen its impact or remove it altogether. In effect, I can take the edge off its annoyance altogether and sleep peacefully for the rest of the evening. If only I could identify its source!

Still, it was so very still in the room now. It was as if the advance of light had checked the noise, whatever its origin acting as a deterrent to its raucous splendour. Yes, that's it, he thought. The light in some fashion interfered or dispels the racket that spawns the darkness. How irrational. What a repudiation of his earlier thesis that man, as a rational being, manipulated his surroundings as opposed to being the mere lackey of circumstance. Yet, there was but one way to determine the logistics of his theory, he reasoned. Apply brakes to the light and brace oneself for the possible resumption of the unearthly noise.

Did he dare? Did he, in a Profroukian sense, care to challenge the impetus of the moment - that crackle of sound made as it darned a wavy edge over the liquid crack of an audible wave? Could he presume to roll up his trouser legs, eat the allegorical peach or clutch the parchment of his being to prepare a loosing onto the gates of night? A strange synthesis for a man priding himself on logic, he muttered quickening the thought process. Carefully, he prepared himself for the venture. Barely a flick away, he imagined a surge of electricity to go rifling through the inroads of his body, illuminating in garish sequence the duality of his true nature - lucidity and ghost fear. He was ready to examine the Hegelian fusion of his private universe.

The light remained off. Unbearable became the mental jousting going forth across the diameter of his brain, that circle of intense inner reasoning. Yet nothing threatening had yet developed. No formidable barrage of sound like the last time just bare minutes before when the noise had tormented him so. No creeping need to silence the unexplained droning that parried his sanity. But where did that place his theory on darkness and a correlation with the heightened noise's proliferation? What if the noise should return when, say, he awoke tomorrow in the luxury of a room bathed in morning's warm gaze? How might he cope amid sheer inconsistencies, such contradictions like that?

Now the uninterrupted silence assumed growing dimensions. There was nothing amiss, yet nothing resolved either. The sound and fury existed in a mute silence, growing within the totality beyond categorization. After all, it was darkest before dawn. And when did a fat man look his most corpulent - next to one deprived of flesh, of course. One could not react too carefully juxtaposed against glaring opposites in a universe filled with few resolutions. No, he would not be lulled into a false confidence, into the luxury of seemingly overcoming the mystery of his baffling noise. In all sincerity, he must anticipate everything.

Perhaps the very silence harboured little noises like maggots invisible to the eye? Invisible, yet nonetheless there, brooding for an assault beneath a limpid surface? Yes, the enemy - that pestilent noise was still in its lair watching his fragile kingdom, eyeing an opening, searching out his jugular. He would blunt it, though. Under no circumstances would he crack. Not the likes of him. Must remain calm at all costs, he cautioned himself. He must remain master of the situation, not be alarmed should the phantom noise return. After all, in darkness lay his chance to test his theory of the sound's interrelation with shadow. Without darkness, there was no sure way to clear this mess up once and for all.

The doctor searched again for a pulse, then shook a wearied head. The bedclothes were damp with perspiration and the room lay ajar with evidence of disarray. Durfield's eyes stared voluminously through their sockets and seemed fixed to the furthest wall of his bedroom. At the room's opening lay an overturned table with the smashed remains of a deflected lamp with its nightshade crumpled lying by the base of the wall.

"I just got up for a drink in the minute of the night and stumbled against the door," the younger brother was explaining. "I could barely even see the door, honest. I didn't mean to wake him or anything like that. He's given me heck before."

The doctor closed the eyelids against pupils bulging in a vaccuous profusion. He said nothing, but renewed his glance at the broken glass and dark spot on the coiled rug where spilt water had made a crevice-like opening over the linoleum and upturned nightstand.