Nightmare Factory

I had no idea what the hell I was doing.

I was standing in my threadbare pajamas - worn blue sweatshirt and blue flannel, tissue-thin pants - in front of my dad’s tombstone.

Rory Scott Nicholson

Husband to Marie • Avery’s Daddy

September 4th, 1967 - September 3rd, 2018

My breath materialized into small puffs of smoke as I stared, my eyes tracing the letters over and over. 

Rory…Marie…Avery…September…3rd…Rory…

Husband…Daddy…1967…2018….

A day before his birthday. One day. Twenty-four hours.

Mom had a freshly baked apple pie in the fridge with a dark stout to compliment the fruity dessert. My dad wasn’t a huge fan of cake. He said it was too sweet, too fake. He wanted to savor the tenderness of real fruit, ripe and juicy, the crunchiness blending with the crumbly crust and savory smoothness of the apple’s sweetness, not as biting as buttercream or store bought frosting.

That same pie was sliced and served at his memorial service. I don’t think Mom wanted that or planned that.

It just happened.

All the hustle and bustle of family, friends, and neighbors with their casseroles, condolences, and constant attempts at comfort. They slipped in and out, shrouded in black, like dementors from Harry Potter.

The suckers of the soul. 

I shuddered from the cold as I settled down into the mushy grass, trying to fight away the thought that I was sitting just six or so feet above my father’s body. 

His decaying body.

His freakishly taxidermied body.

His bones.

One thing I have come to loathe about being human is my mind. The way that the human mind defaults to conjuring up the most horrifying images, especially when something is not visible. It’s like when a horror movie only shows glimpses of the blood, gore, violence, murder, bodies, but leaves most of the finer details up to the viewer’s imagination. And, my, does the mind make it so much more abhorrent.

I was not there the day my dad ended his life. I did not see his body. Mom chose to have his casket closed. No viewing. No way for me to know what he looked like on the day he was put into the ground.

The last memory I have of my dad was just like any other day. Lucy had dropped Chase off for a play date. We were up in the treehouse, laughing away as we always did when we were together. The details of what we were doing are fuzzy. But I remember my dad’s head suddenly popping up through the floor, and both of us squealing in fright, tumbling back and away. I had accidentally landed on top of Chase, unintentionally elbowing him in the ribs. He cried out in pain and rolled over, tucked in on himself. My dad’s face instantly darkened with concern, and he crawled up into the treehouse.

I remember being a bit squashed up against the wall. My dad was not a small man. He had a broad back, huge shoulders, and his thick red beard. He looked like a lumberjack through and through. I used to watch him shave and he would make funny faces in the mirror at me and I would sit on the rim of the bathtub, laughing and laughing.

I miss laughing like that.

Dad spoke softly, reaching out to scoop up and soothe a red-faced Chase. He had fat tears rolling down his cheeks, which instantly made my eyes well up. I began to cry too, and my dad instantly turned his attention to me, Chase tucked against his chest.

“Are you alright, my little bird?”

I nodded, tears streaming down.

“Did you get hurt, too?”

“N-no, daddy,” I cried. “I hurt because Chase hurts. Here.” 

I pointed a finger at my chest. It ached.

It aches now.

Dad smiled gently at me, the dark cloud of worry dissipating.

“Oh honey, that’s because you have the biggest and goodest heart,” he said, taking my hand and gently pulling me towards him.

“I do?” I sniffled.

“You do,” he replied, wiping a few stray tears away with his thumb. “Your heart hurts because you love Chase, and he’s hurt. You don’t like to see people you love hurt. Is that right?”

I looked from my dad’s face to Chase, who had stopped crying and was now sitting on my dad’s knee, still tucked into his chest.

“I didn’t-I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I sobbed, fresh tears beginning to flow.

“It wasn’t your fault, we both got scared,” Chase replied, his slate blue eyes also beginning to mist.

“Please don’t cry, Ave. You’re gonna make my heart hurt, too.”

Daddy let out a laugh.

“So, you’re a fellow empath, Chase?” he asked, poking Chase in the tummy a few times.

Chase giggled and shrieked, trying to escape the tickles, but my dad was relentless.

“Ah, I see you are intact,” he grinned, ceasing his attack on Chase, who was still giggling like crazy.

“What’s an empath, daddy?” I asked as he gently picked Chase up and placed him on his feet. 

“An empath,” he began, shifting to the opposite wall and stretching out his legs, “is someone who…feels what others do. Imagine you have a special superpower that lets you feel exactly how other people are feeling. If someone is happy, you feel happy too, and if someone is sad, you feel sad with them. That's what an empath is - someone who can easily understand and share the feelings of others as if they were their own.”

“So, I can always feel what Chase is feeling?” I asked, cocking my head.

“No,” he laughed, reaching out to poke me in the tummy. I squealed and pressed myself against the wall, but he closed the distance easily. I thumped down to the floor next to Chase, who was resting against the wall.

“No, you can’t feel what Chase feels all of the time. But when he feels something a lot, you will connect with him and feel it too.”

“Feels something a lot?”

“Yes, feeling something deeply. Feeling it really big,” he said, stretching out his arms wide.

“Like love?” I asked.

“Love is a big one,” daddy said, smiling softly. “Or joy. Or sadness. Or fear.”

“Chase is never afraid!” I said, pointing at him. “He’s always so brave, he killed a spider that was up here. I was too scared to even come up until he got it.”

“You’re a brave boy, Chase?” daddy asked, squeezing Chase’s foot. 

Chase looked up with a small smile.

“If it means Avery is okay, then yes. But I don’t think I am very brave.”

“What!” I yelped, whipping my head to look at him. 

Daddy let out another loud, lively, and loving laugh.

“Aw, come on, Chase,” he said with a rueful smile. “You know you’re the coolest kid that I know. Except for my daughter. But you are definitely the bravest, kindest, and sweetest kid that I know.”

Chase smiled, his eyes shining. 

I know he loved my dad almost as much as I did. Chase’s dad was horrible. 

But that’s a story for another time.

And there ends that story. The specifics of that memory fade out to nothing. I think he had asked us if we wanted popsicles, and that we would need to come down to eat them if we did. He knew that those sticks of sugary goodness would turn us into horribly sticky messes that he would then chase around with the garden hose, growling like a monster as Chase and I squealed and laughed and ran for our lives.

That is my final, clearest memory. 

And now, I sit here, the grotesque images of his body flashing through my mind: rotting, oozing, bleeding, cold, purple, lonely, stiff, flesh slopping off of his bones.

He overdosed. He had driven to a remote place and swallowed a mix of pills. Alcohol was involved. I don’t know if he suffered. I don’t know what he did in those last hours. Thought. Said. Felt.

I didn’t even see his body. 

But the mind is a nightmare factory. And I have seen his body over and over and over. Folded, slumped, broken, twisted.

Dead.

I shiver, only now realizing that I am crying. The tears are warm on my half-frozen cheeks.

And suddenly, a hand is on my shoulder.

I practically leap out of my skin before a voice hushes me and I swallow my scream.

“Avery, what the devil are you doing out here at this hour?” Tucker scolded, his dark eyes searching my face.

“Tucker, you scared me,” I whispered, my breath billowing in the air as my heart raced. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be here, but I…”

Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t escape the nightmares. Couldn’t stop asking why. Couldn’t stop wondering why he did it. Why did he choose this? Why did he end it? Why did he leave me?

Why wasn’t I enough?

Why didn’t daddy love me?

“Oh sweetheart,” Tucker murmured.

My tears were flowing as if from a broken dam.

Tucker embraced me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You know how I am, protecting these grounds." He let me go and gestured with his arm, his flashlight beam sweeping over the stones.

“I know,” I exhaled shakily. “I just…needed to come here.”

“I understand,” he replied. He was earnest. “But you should really go home. It’s freezing cold, and you’re wearing nothing but your pajamas.”

It was only then that I realized how bone-chillingly cold I was, and my teeth instantly began to chatter.

Tucker gently looped his arm through mine and led me to his car, where he wrapped me in a blanket, asked me into the passenger seat, and had me call Chase. Tucker sat with the heat blowing in the driver’s seat as a sleepy-sounding Chase picked up my call.

He always answers my calls.

“Ave?” he murmured. “Are you okay?”

“Am I ever?” I practically choked, still crying.

“Where are you?” he suddenly sounded much more awake, and I heard rustling and light thumps. I imagined him fumbling around in the dark, pressing his phone to his ear, trying to find the light switch.

“At the cemetery.”

Silence.

“What?”

“The cemetery,” I repeated, more lowly.

A heavy pause.

“Are you okay, Ave?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I’m with Tucker.”

“Oh, thank God,” he huffed. I heard him shut his car door. “I’m on my way.”

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“Wait. Ave?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you freaking walk there?”

I hung up.