a r k a d e

On that black summer night, a whipping wind infiltrated my room through a crack in the window, bathing it in a crisp chill. Rain had just begun to fall as I jumped out of bed, sprawling out on the floor with a soft thump. I lay there for a long moment, listening to the house. Listening for the sound of footsteps. My small fingers clutched tightly within the shag as if woven into the fibers. My mind bounced with possibility as I waited to be discovered.

With the alacrity of a child, I sprung to my feet and raced to my doorway. Breathing dramatically, I leaned out and peered down the hallway. A wan light came from the cramped living room. I smiled to myself.

I dropped to my hands and knees and eased out from hiding, shuffling slowly down the hallway, one measured step at a time. I turned into the living room, avoiding the TV tray with a stack of dirty plates stacked precariously on top and was surprised to see my older brother slumped on the sofa, his head snapped back—mouth gaping wide, his chest rising and falling slowly as he wheezed, accordion-like, with sleep.

I continued forward, carefully extracting an open bag of snacks nestled against my brother’s arm as plunder, and then stepped into the dark open doorway that led from the living room into our kitchen. My bare feet slid carefully over the scattered grit that had been tracked in without being swept up. The refrigerator began to shake and make grinding noises as I passed it making my way to stand in front of the towering glass pane of the sliding door.

I looked out at the blackness beyond, where our ill maintained and rarely used back deck was. I stood there—palms and forehead pressed on glass and listened as the patter of rain became a raucous and terrible entity. Wind tossed drops that streaked and spangled the sliding door.

I could hear the wind too, not just its mighty whistle as it raked against the house but also the groaning of the support beams of the deck and the shutters jostling and clacking outside. My breath formed a pale circle on the glass as I listened and looked out. The raindrops falling like speeding racecars past my eyes.

Then came God’s terrible white anger carving down the black canvas of night—I had never seen lightning and upon seeing it for the first time, without any understanding of what it was, I was terrified, yet I couldn’t look away. Veins of wild golden light careening from heaven down to burrow into the earth followed closely by the resonant explosions of thunder that shook the glass and throttled me so much that I fell backwards.

Scrambling, I ran back to my room and dove beneath my bed. Pushing the toys and crumpled clothes out of the way until I was flush with the wall where I remained until I eventually fell asleep.

My instinct to stay hidden in the refuge beneath my bed during thunderstorms like that stayed with me for many more years. Whenever a storm brewed on the horizon I flew off to my bedroom, terrified of the crazed lightning and thunder I remembered from that black summer night.
      

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