Doppler

He awoke with a gasp, jolting upright, one hand at his chest, the other grasping out into the empty darkness in front of him. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but Her face was already fading and he was pulled, unwilling into reality.

His heart was still pounding inside his ribcage, and his bare chest drenched in sweat, but the heat of the nightmare was already fading, and the nighttime summer breeze through the open window sent a chill through him that made him draw breath.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and allowed them to adjust. Across the darkness of the bedroom, a faint blue glow solidified into the display of his digital alarm clock. 2:10 a.m. He sighed and flopped back onto his sweaty sheets, staring at the black ceiling.

The dreams came less often now. Recently he had begun to fear that without them, he'd start to forget the details of Her face, or the sound of Her voice... But the years spent fighting against the shadow of his nightmares had become instinctual, and his recent efforts to prolong the dwindling encounters seemed fruitless.

A distant flash of lightning briefly lit the room, and the blinds at the open window rattled as another breeze blew in. He counted silently, waiting for the thunder. It never came.

He cast aside the sheet, got out of bed, and shivered again. He grabbed his lighter off the dresser and took one cigarette from the pack laying next to it, picked a crumpled t shirt off the floor where he had thrown it just a few short hours ago, padded barefoot through the dark house, and out the screen door onto the porch.

The night was still and heavy. Somewhere at the treeline in the distance a single cricket carried out his song with indifference to the somber mood of the hour. Another flash briefly illuminated the sky behind a black silhouette of trees, and he saw for a moment the clouds churning low and purple and ominous.

He threw the t shirt over his head, quickly pulled it into place, and stuck the cigarette between his lips as the first sound of thunder rolled over the trees. He lifted the lighter to the cigarette and gave it a flick, and at that moment the wind blew in, snuffing the meager spark.

The storm was coming in from the southwest, as was often the case. He gave a wry smile as the stab of guilt passed through him, and nodded knowingly in Her direction, before turning his back to the wind. This time he hunched over and cupped the lighter with his other hand, and watched the faint orange glow in his palm as the cigarette took the flame.

He drew deep, allowing the burn of the smoke in his lungs to mingle with the familiar ache in his heart. He could no longer get drunk or high enough to ignore the daily cuts from the broken shards of his past, so he'd all but given that up, instead trying to chainsmoke his way into a cancerous early grave.

The wind snatched the smoke from his lips as he exhaled, as if his soul was being drawn out of his body, and he watched it spiral up into the darkness and out of sight. And in its place, a raindrop fell, landed on his face, and ran down his cheek like a tear.

Thunder rolled again, and as the rain began in earnest, he closed his eyes, whispered Her name, and let it wash over him.