I know why they scream

I Know Why They ScreamAdult Short Story

Escape. At an all time low in my life and influenced by everyone around me, I needed to

escape. The worst kind of betrayal had struck me after a rapid-fire succession of unusual events

that left me unable to cope. My seven-year marriage to the man of my dreams, ended abruptly in

a cloud of deceit and confusion. As it happened, he had an on-going affair with a woman he had

been dating before we met, and during our marriage, they had two sons. They built their dream

home on my savings and our combined incomes from the last several years. I wasn’t paying

attention. He was my White Knight. My friends and some family members did their best to

conceal what they knew, and over time, became accomplices in the illegitimate affair to spare me

the grief of discovery. Once the tangled web was exposed, I came undone.

I decided I needed to find a place where I was a total stranger and someplace far removed

from my current environment, to sort things out. I needed to be able to sift through what was

real and what was not, without influence from the people around me. They had deceived me. I

could trust no one. A remote hot springs resort, located in the southwest corner of Montana,

became my asylum.

As I approached the entrance of the resort, I identified the tall noble fir and pine trees that

would keep sentinel over me and conceal me from the world. I took up residence in a small

two-room cabin that had been built in the late 1800’s. Perched on a high slope, at an elevation of

7,800 feet, the view from my cabin was panoramic. When a fog moved in from the valley floor

and reached the top of the trees below me, I had the feeling that my cabin was floating on a

magic carpet, for there was nothing else in sight.

Natural hot springs flowed under the cabin, and no matter how cold it got, it was always

warm. I cooked meals on the old wood stove, which also provided extra warmth. I lit my first

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fire in the stove on the approach of winter, a winter with a snowfall of 375 inches. I kept the fire

burning and never struck another match until a year later, when the last flame would burn out,

and signal my departure.

The isolation afforded me time to think. It gave me time to discover who and what was

important to me, and how and where I wanted to live. I needed to make these decisions on my

own, without interference. Identity had eluded me. My survival would depend on my ability to

accomplish what I set out to do.

Periodically, I would have to strap on my snowshoes and hike out to the main road,

hitching a ride into the nearest town for supplies. After the shopping was done, a visit to the Post

Office, and other errands, I would stop in a local bar to listen to the sound of people talking and

laughing. Secluded in a dark corner, sipping on a Drambuie, I resisted the temptation to speak to

anyone.

I fantasized about having intelligent conversations with some of the people, laughing with

them, and even allowed myself to daydream about a sexual encounter with one of the more

gregarious characters in the room. Fear kept my mouth frozen shut, just like my heart had

become.

I knew that I needed contact with people, but I couldn’t trust anyone I met. I wasn’t

paranoid about people; I just couldn’t trust my own instincts to judge them. All of the skills I

had, had failed. I accepted everyone the same. I was desperate to connect with someone. My

task was to find someone safe.

Not too far from the bar, and on my way out of town, was a small, quaint rest home. As I

pulled my supplies on a sled behind me, I examined the little compound. The sign read:

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Maximum Capacity 34. There were flower boxes hanging below every window, weighted down

and anchored to the ground below, by fat, dagger like, icicles. I drew my scarf tighter around my

neck, and dug my cold hands deep into my fleece lined pockets. A faded flag hung motionless in

the circular driveway. A “Help Wanted” sign was taped on the entry door. I could see a pair of

eyes intent on following my movements from one of the windows. I couldn’t tell if they

belonged to a man or woman. The gauze-like curtains veiled their true identity. I waved.

Whoever it was waved back. Involuntary tears streamed half way down my checks and froze in

place.

A couple of weeks later, I stoked the fire, bundled up and headed down the mountain. I

bypassed the Post Office, hardware store, and the bar, and found myself standing in front of the

rest home. I stood there a long time, waiting for the friendly eyes to appear in the window again.

I was startled when someone tapped my shoulder. Winifred, the head nurse had been watching

me as she stared out of her office window. She invited me in and offered me coffee. Once

inside, the eyes of many were looking at me. I waved. Someone waved back. I was anxious to

find out who this person was.

The head nurse and I sat and talked. I don’t know why, but in her presence, I felt safe. I

told her my story, and where I was staying. She kept our coffee cups full. As we continued to

talk, a woman stood before us and stared. Latter, she giggled and fled down the hall. A curious

gentleman with sky-blue eyes approached us and stood close to me, patting me on the shoulder,

petting my hair, not saying a word. Winifred and I continued our conversation as if we were all

alone.

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She asked me if I was looking for some work. I hadn’t thought of that, but I asked her

what she had available. Nothing was appealing to me. Then she told me about a night position

that required me to only be available to the residents. The majority of residents had been

transferred from some hospital, or other long-term care facility, knowing that their time was very

short. Some residents were left by frustrated relatives who could no longer care for them

properly.

The rest home provided more individual care and allowed the residents to pass quietly,

with dignity. If they needed someone to talk to, I would be there to listen. If they needed

someone to hold their hand, they could hold mine. If they were afraid of the dark, I would sit in

their room with them, until the fear passed. The hours were 10 PM to 6 AM. I could come as

many nights as I wanted to. I accepted her offer.

After a few months of night visitation, I knew the life stories of many of the residents.

There were some I never wished to know yet some that could not speak that I longed to know.

Their individual stories haunted me, but somehow made me feel connected to something larger.

Every morning when I returned to the cabin, I would pick up my pen to record the night’s

experiences. Writing became aerobic exercise for my mind and body and after a few hours of

unconscious pen-on-paper, I would collapse and fall asleep. Sleep was something that had

eluded me for some time.

Zola screamed repetitiously through the night. She was 92 years old. She had a radical

mastectomy when she was young, that left her chest quite deformed. One night, during a terrible

screaming spell, and after an hour, or so of holding her and rocking her like a little baby, she

collapsed in my arms. She told me she was afraid that the big bad dog, with the rows of razor

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sharp teeth would come sliding through her window (she had no window) and bite off her

remaining withered breast.

Hester was in the rallying stages of her departure from life. She was 98 years old. Her

body was tired, her lungs and heart weak and pneumonia had taken hold of her. Her husband

visited her twice daily until he had a fall and broke his hip. After his hospital stay, they

transferred him to the rest home, and he and his wife shared a room together. She held on,

waiting for him. In his youth, he was a university professor. He wrote epic poetry and had

proposed to her with a poem written from his love and inspiration. On the night he was admitted

to the rest home, he reached for her hand and began to recite the very poem. It took him several

hours to complete. During the last phrase and profession of his eternal love, she exhaled her last

breath, her hand still resting in his.

From the first night I met Eula, I hoped that she would talk to me. I was told that she had

never uttered a word. Every night, I would enter her room and talk to her as if we had been

talking for hours. I was always very animated and used her name as often as I could. I would sit

by her bed and hold her hand, running my fingers across the knotted veins that bulged from her

fragile thin skin. Her skin was so thin; I had to be careful not to tear it. I would chatter endlessly

about my day. Sometimes I found myself singing to her.

I had planned a week off. Snow needed to be plowed, wood needed to be split, and I

needed a break from these dying people. I needed to absorb and sort out all the stories I had heard

about life’s disappointments and rewards. It was interesting to hear about failed relationships,

and the impact they had on these people some 40, 50, even 60 years later. Although I had work to

do, I set the shovel and axe down, picked up the pen, and begin to write about life, death and

relationships. They would never know how important their past lives were on my future.

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On the night I returned I made my rounds and was happy to see that most everyone was

still there. I couldn’t wait to see Eula. I had so much to tell her. “Good evening Eula! How have

you been?” Silence as usual. Her eyes were closed, but they almost looked as if she was

purposely trying to keep them shut. I sat down beside her and reached for her hand. “Believe it

or not, Eula, I missed you so much” I said. Her eyes shut a little tighter. I decided not to stay and

talk. I wanted to respect her. If she wanted me to think she was asleep, I would go along with the

rouse. I got up to leave but before I reached the end of her bed, I heard her say, “I missed you

too.” I turned around to see Eula sitting up. Tears filed her eyes, and she desperately tried to

blink them away. I rushed to her and we held each other for a long time. We shed every tear we

had never cried. Eula began to speak.

Her family had dropped her off years ago. They were supposed to come back for her, but

she never saw them again. Everyday she would stand and look out her window for her relatives to

return. They never did. She never got over the shock of being abandoned and she never had

another word to say to anyone. It was she that waved to me from the window that first day. She

told me that looking out at me looking in, reminded her of herself looking to belong, looking to

find warmth and love, but always out in the cold, alone.

Lyle was another favorite. He was one with his bed. He depended on oxygen. He had

emphysema. He was his most talkative at night because the oxygen was medicated and he felt

better. One particular night, as I was making my rounds, I heard Lyle scream. It was a horrible,

pathetic and very loud scream. I ran into his room and his screams continued. I grabbed hold of

him and yelled out his name. He grabbed me back. He held on to me so tightly, that I thought he

would squeeze the very life out of me. His screams turned into 20 minutes of wailing. When he

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finally calmed down, he said urgently, “I know why they scream!” I asked him to repeat what he

said. “I know why they scream,” he said in a pleading way. “Why who screams?” I asked.

“You wake up. It is night and it’s dark in your room. You don’t know where you are.

You are not in your bed that you have slept in for 50 years. You don’t recognize anything in the

room. Where is my wife’s picture? Where is the picture of my grandson on the fishing trip I took

him on when he turned 16? I can’t see my fireplace. I hadn’t fallen asleep in my recliner, with

the TV going on and a drink still in my hand. Where’s my cigarettes? I know why they scream,”

he persisted, “they think they’re already dead.”

The time had come for me to think about leaving. I had been in my self-imposed exile for

over a year. The separation from the familiar had been powerful medicine and I felt for the first

time in my adult life, that I could make decisions that were meaningful. I felt I had developed a

sense of who I was and what was important to me. I had identified my vulnerabilities and

weaknesses, which made me stronger and more resolved. Although it would be comfortable for

me to stay where I was, destiny sang it’s siren song and lured me out of hibernation.

Reluctant on one hand, and anxious on the other, I turned in my formal resignation. The

head nurse was sad to learn of my decision but realized it was necessary. Saying goodbye was

going to be very hard, but I needed to move on. The lives of these people, sitting it out, waiting to

die had no meaning left, and no purpose. Their dignity had been striped away and replaced by

rules, time slots and routines foreign to them. It snuffed the very life out of them. I too was

suffocating. I don’t think I could bear one more indignity or one more death. I realized I must

return to the land of the living and face whatever challenges lay ahead. I also knew that I had

developed the inner strength to do just that.

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The news traveled from one hallway to the next. The little rest home was a buzz of

activity, with people scurrying around telling everyone else, as if they were the first to do so. The

head nurse ordered sedatives. It was too much excitement for most of the residents. Eula heard

the news as a couple of nurses stood outside her doorway talking about it, avoiding her room.

They always avoided her room.

I did not want to say good-bye to Eula. I did not want to tell her that I too was abandoning

her. As I walked out the front door to leave the rest home for good, the cold air bit my face and

took my breath away. I felt faint. My heart was pounding. My mind was playing tricks on me

and all I could hear was the sound of Eula’s voice, a voice only revealed to me. Tears flooded my

eyes and I immediately felt all of her loneliness. I looked back and was surprised to see a pair of

eyes following my every move. They were Eula’s. I bolted back inside and ran to her room.

I entered and knelt by the side of her bed. I took her purple and brown speckled hands and

held them in both of mine. I pulled her hands up to my face and kissed them a couple of times.

“Oh Eula, I’m so sorry your family left you. And now, I must go too. I can’t bear leaving you,

but I must. I love you Eula,” I wept. I finally cried myself out and looked into her eyes. They

were full of tears, though she desperately tried to hold them back. I got up to leave and let go of

her hands. I stepped backwards out of the room, not taking my eyes off of her. Her deep, raspy

voice was to be heard one last time. “I love you too” she professed. A few days later, Eula closed

her eyes for good, her silence natural.

I know what it is like to be left alone. Abandonment is a demon that haunts me. Once

you experience it, the fear of it is not likely to ever leave you. It is something I’ve come to reckon

with, and I think I learned its value and could move away from it. Walking from the rest home, I

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turned to look back. I searched every window for a pair of eyes and a hand that would answer my

wave. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. I understood. I too know why they scream.

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I know why they scream