A Whisper in the Thunderstorm

If we were living in Roman times, I would be an old man. Elderly, even, merely for having lived to the ripe age of 40. I feel it sometimes. No matter how many cartoons I watch or video games I play; no matter what I do to keep my inner child alive, I’m at the age where I can physically feel my age; I can feel the wear and tear on muscle, bone and sinew. Moreover, I can actually denote the difference in thinking with the man I am now and the one that existed a decade ago. We are two different people. And, I'm at peace with that.

What eats away at me is the realization that for all my training, accumulation of knowledge and honing of my instincts, I cannot and will not be able to protect everyone and everything I love. This is a fact. One that I have not been able to accept. I protect. It is at the very core of my being. It's one of very few things I am absolutely certain about myself. I protect. I'm not always the best at it. I'm not always on time or succeed but I always make it a habit to help others and, if need be, jump in front of them and shield them from danger. I do this of my own free will and I do it gladly with a smile on my face. And yet...

My friend of many years and a woman I care for deeply was sexually assaulted quite recently. This happened moments after she left my company. I cannot help but blame myself. I should have trusted my instincts and never relinquished her to the diabolical appetite of the night. I should've kept her safe in my embrace but I let her go because it's what she wanted and I always want to make her happy. It wasn't until later in the day that I discovered what had transpired mere blocks away from where I was at that time and I cannot begin to describe the helplessness and vulnerability I felt let alone the pure, burning rage that threatened to explode from me and spread like a wild fire across the face of the planet. While I was upset about what had happened, I couldn't get the idea that, even though she was safe, I could very easily have discovered all that had happened to her as I read her obituary. Violent crimes don't always end with the victim alive. My subconscious mind concurred. The nightmares always ended with me finding her lifeless corpse. Mouth agape; eyes accusatory holding me solely responsible for the cruel fate that had befallen her. And all around me a thunderstorm, full of sound and fury, echoing the last moments of her torment to me. Crying out my name as she was being ravaged, it seemed, by the very storm itself and I was powerless to do anything about it.

Whether it is in my bed, on my recliner, in my car or leaning against a tree, I always wake up violently and in a cold sweat with tears in my eyes to the sound of my name from her lips. Moments of missing time riddle my days. Sleep has not come easily for me these past couple of days and I cannot imagine they will anytime soon. Not for me. Certainly not for her. Sadly, I have turned to my old vices for comfort but what truly scares me is not that I'm afraid of the thunderstorm. It's that I'm angry at it the way I used to be when I was younger. All I want to do is set the sky ablaze and I'm strangely comfortable with that.