The Toll of Thunder

Art by Mackenzie von Pingel - 2021

Maison Foley woke up to the rain.

It pounded against his window in vicious splatters, trying to find a way inside. The blankets of clouds were sewn from darkness, and soft drums of thunder pounded in the distance. It slammed against the windows, the walls, inside his own mind.

There was something about the rain.

Maison laid back down. What was it about the rain? It had rained before, so what was it this time? Why did it send shivers down his spine? Why did he flinch everytime a drop pounded against the window? A haunting anxiety crept through his body, the feeling of death knocking at his door. It pounded on the walls like the rain outside.

It was closing in.

Maison jumped as he felt movement to his right.

“Maison… Maison, are you awake?” a woman asked.

It was his wife. It was Helen. He knew her.

She sat up, “Maison? What’s wrong?”

“I…” Maison realized he had been staring blankly out the window and into the storm outside. “I’m fine.”

“Get some rest, honey,” Helen muttered, then rolled over.

Thunder rumbled again in the distance, and the pouring rain intensified.

Maison looked at his hands. He felt like they were dirty. They were coated in something. Restlessness trickled from his hands to the rest of his body. He had no choice but to get up.

He trudged into the connected bathroom. As the cold water ran over his hands, he looked up at his reflection in the mirror. He splashed the water up to his face, glancing into his own eyes. Helen’s reflection was behind his own, looking beautiful on the bed in the dim light.

“Maison, honey,” Helen said, “you don’t want to be tired for work tomorrow.”

“Yes…” he glanced at Helen’s eyes in the mirror. “I--I know.”

“Come back to bed,” she said.

He dried his face with the towel, looking at his eyes in the mirror once more. He looked tired. He felt the weight of exhaustion on his body. He should get some rest. He had to work, he had to get up early, he had to get to the…

The…

Where did he work?

Maison felt panic crawl up his throat. He felt the walls begin to close in, his world becoming disoriented and disconnected. He dug deep into his mind, desperately trying to answer his own question. What did he do each day? How did he earn a living? Why could he not conjure up this trivial fact, something so essential to his everyday routine? Where did he work?

Where did he work?

“Where do I work?”

There was a brief pause.

“Maison--” Helen said.

“Where do I work?” he repeated.

“I don’t know why--”

Maison slammed his hand on the bathroom counter. Helen flinched. Maison stared at her, looking her straight in the eye.

“Where do I work?”

The panic was building. It had crawled up from his throat and into his head, infecting his every passing thought. He could no longer think of anything but that nagging, screaming, torturing question. Maison had to know the answer.

Helen had to know as well, but she hesitated.

“The office.”

“What office?”

“The one you’ve always worked at. The one you’ve worked at since we met.”

Maison gritted his teeth, “And that is…?”

Helen sighed, “Maison, go back to sleep. Relax. Remember Jamaica? On the beach, holding me, just--”

Maison swiped up the clock on the counter and swung it into the mirror. A spiderweb of cracks erupted from the impact. His hand dug into the glass. He saw the blood. He felt the pain run down to his wrist.

Thunder rumbled. The rain intensified.

He looked back at Helen. She looked terrified. What did he do?

He set the clock down, scrambling to clean the blood dripping from his hand. He watched the water run off his hands once more, turning crimson and swirling down the drain.

He looked up, glancing at Helen through the mirror. Her form was warped in the splintering cracks.

Something was off about the way she looked at Maison. He remembered her face. He remembered the way she moved. He remembered he was supposed to love her. She was beautiful, but something about it wasn’t right. She looked through him, as if her gaze was set on another figure past himself.

Her hands covered her mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Maison… please…” she sobbed. “Don’t do this.”

Something wasn’t right.

He turned to face her, her form no longer projected through the fractured mirror.

“This isn’t real.”

“Maison--” Helen said. “I--”

“No,” Maison continued. “It’s not real.”

Thunder rumbled once again.

“You’re not my wife,” he said.

The feeling of panic subsided for a moment, and Maison felt the relief of clarity wash over him. The world went silent as the revelation escaped his lips.

“My wife is dead.”

The rain pounded on the window. The wind outside was howling, but it wasn’t outside anymore; Maison could hear it in his head. The rain was inside him, flooding his mind. The thunder rumbled within his ears. He felt his jaw shake and he flinched as another bullet of thunder shot through his ear drums.

“Please… please, Maison,” Helen cried.

Maison looked at her, wanting this to be his reality, wanting so hard for this to be real, but he already knew the truth. The illusion had shattered.

“It’s not real,” Maison repeated, tears rolling down his face.

The window shattered.

The rain poured in. Splintered glass pierced the air. The thunder clapped and lightning flashed. The entire room shook with each impact. The room began to flood, and the current slammed Maison against the wall. He struggled against the waves, searching for Helen, but she seemed to have disappeared beneath the water.

Another wave crashed in, carrying the storm with it. Maison submerged for a moment and caught a glimpse of Helen beneath the water. He kicked off the wall in her direction. He reached towards her. They were about to connect, but his hand passed through her own. She wasn’t real.

Maison swam up for air, the water about to rise up to the ceiling. Waves continued to crash in, and Maison battled each one of them, trying to stay afloat.

But it wasn’t real.

Maison relaxed. He closed his eyes, feeling the water rise up to his face. He took in one last breath and succumbed to the water. The water crashed over his head, and Maison felt himself go under.

Thunder rumbled through the darkness.

It was quiet for a moment. Pure silence. The nothingness was an ethereal comfort, and for a moment, the strange feeling disappeared as his reality shifted.

“Mr. Foley,” a voice echoed.

Maison’s eyes flew open, and he was awake on a hospital bed with unfamiliar faces looking over him. Most of them were nurses, but two of the figures were tall, intimidating men in suits; one had a beard, one was bald. A needle stuck into his forearm and an opaque substance pumped into his veins. The room around him was pure white. The blinding lights hanging from the ceiling made the room even brighter.

“Mr. Foley,” the bearded man said, “are you alright?”

Maison sat up in his bed, “Where am I?”

The two men push him back down.

“Careful there, Mr. Foley,” the bald man warned. “You’re still adjusting.”

Maison gritted his teeth. His body tensed. The storm still rumbled inside of him.

“Where am I?”

The two men looked at each other for a moment. They hesitated.

“What do you remember about your life, Mr. Foley?” the bald man asked.

“Tell me where I am.”

“Mr. Foley,” the bearded man began, “we work for a government program that specializes in memory alteration, and…” he hesitated, “and we have altered some of your memories… for your safety.”

“My safety?”

The bald man answered, “We specialize in trauma therapy.”

Maison thought for a moment, despite the storm brewing within.

“Do you remember anything?” the bald man asked, “Anything at all?”

Maison closed his eyes, trying to calm himself enough to think.

“I remember the rain.”

“Is that all?”

“No…” Maison said. “Something happened in the rain…”

The two men looked at each other.

“I remember…” Maison continued, “a gunshot. It sounded like--like thunder.”

“Is that all you remember?” the bearded man asked.

Maison opened his eyes. Tears streamed down his face.

“She’s--she’s dead, isn't she? My wife, my real wife, died.”

The bearded man closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, “Yes she did, Mr. Foley.”

Maison leapt up from the bed, scrambling to push past the two men.

“Who did it?” Maison demanded. “Who did it?”

“Mr. Foley!”

The two men held him down. The nurses struggled to keep him restrained. Maison thrashed and kicked like a mad man. An animalistic force had taken over. The storm built up inside him.

“Tell me who killed her!”

“Put him back under!” the bearded man shouted.

“He’s still on a dosage!”

“Double it if you have to, dammit! It’s wearing off!”

Maison stopped moving. He went perfectly still. That’s when he remembered.

“It was me,” he whispered.

The room went still. The storm subsided, but the realization struck Maison like lightning.

“I killed her,” Maison said.

The room erupted into chaos. Maison struggled to break free. Another nurse injected the needle back into his wrist, the opaque liquid pumping back into his veins.

“He’d better be back under!” the bearded man yelled.

The man’s voice faded away. Maison howled in pain, the storm forcing itself back into his body. He was back in the rain. The storm clouded his mind.

Maison’s eyes closed. He saw himself standing in the rain, watching his wife from the shadows. He saw her standing in the doorway, shining with simple, graceful beauty. Her back was towards him, oblivious to the imposter that she had chosen to love. He pulled the trigger, the bullet fired, and he was left with her blood on his hands.

Thunder boomed like a clock striking the hour. The white room dissolved, the voices subsided, and the rain returned with a roaring crescendo.