Nighttime Refuge: A Journey of Love and Hope

Any light that I might have shone was snuffed out a very long time ago.

I remember the exact moment my star fell. My mom and dad, who’d never cared much for me to begin with, had just left the apartment and forgot to turn off the stove. They’d been getting drunk on cheap whiskey all afternoon, so they probably had no idea what they were doing. The coals ignited the drapes and curtains and soon the whole thing went up in flames. The firemen had to break down the front door in order to get inside and put it out.

My father lost his leg in the process, but he expected me to be there for him. He expected me to marry some poor girl and take care of him. Maybe even provide him with more kids to carry on his shitty genes. I ran off rather than face that future.

My mother died in the inferno, telling one of the firemen how great she thought her husband was, even though she didn’t really know where he was half the time. She said she was proud to have married such a strong man, even if he did throw his life away on booze and gambling when he wasn’t nearly beating us bloody with a belt or a broken bottle. She was happy to be *with* him in her last moments, as she laid dying under a pile of flaming rubble that used to be our home.

That was over twenty years ago. I’ve been wandering ever since, trying to live as best I can while avoiding any serious entanglements with people like my parents – people whose lives are literally burning them up from inside out because they don’t know how to manage their own pain without hurting those around them.

And now I find myself here in this hospital, sitting next to a guy who reminds me so much of my old man it makes me want to scream and cry at once. His eyes are haunted by memories of a childhood that tore him apart from within every single day of his life until he finally gave up and started using whatever drug would numb his pain as best it could – including heroin and crack cocaine. No matter where we go or what we do together, I can see that same darkness lurking inside him, gnawing at his soul with its parasitic teeth and whispering things only he can hear into his ear. It will consume him if we don’t do something about it before it’s too late – just like it devoured everything else he had in life that made him feel truly alive – not just existing because someone tells you to exist anymore than you can help yourself anymore than you can help being born into a family like mine.

I don’t know what happened between Ian and his parents either; but I do know that all of us are broken in some way or another – whether we recognize our own wounds or not; whether we live up to society’s expectations or not; whether we “deserve” anything better than what life hands us or not…

Ian isn’t my son; but sometimes I wish he were – if only so I could save him from himself before time runs out for both one of us…