Pure Blackness

"Jamie said Rose's voice was imagined, that pure blackness makes the mind go crazy—but if the darkness could conjure her perfectly enough to make me run through fire, then I needed her here before it conjured her again."

Slowly, I opened my eyes to a world transformed by morning light filtering through the fabric of the tent. For a moment — just a moment — I didn't know where I was. The light was wrong, too amber, too insistent. And then awareness crept back to me in fragments, each piece clicking into place with the reluctance of a confession.

I was lying near the centre of the tent, the cold plastic base beneath me an uncomfortable reminder of how far I had fallen. Not just physically — though that too. The lingering sense of dread hovered at the edge of my consciousness, a fog that the morning sun couldn't burn away. The remnants of the previous night's terror were still palpable in the air, clinging to my skin like the dust that had tried to flay me alive.

And beneath the dread, something else. The sensation of being held. Strong arms wrapped securely around me. A heartbeat against my spine. It remained vivid even now, hours later — a fleeting comfort amidst chaos that I wasn't sure I deserved.

Then the memories began to crystallise. Not gently. Not gradually. But with the sudden clarity of a bone breaking.

"Rose!" The name burst from me as I sat upright in a rush. She had been here. She had been calling for me. I had heard her, had followed her voice into the—

The blanket that had been my only cover slid from my body, its movement across my skin igniting a trail of fire that consumed every thought. I shivered, not from cold but from the pain that flared with each movement. My arms. My chest. My legs. Every inch of exposed skin screamed its grievance, a harsh chorus reminding me of the ordeal I had endured. The dust had not been content merely to blind me. It had wanted to unmake me entirely.

"Ouch!"

The exclamation was involuntary as I attempted to stand. My right foot protested the weight with a sharp, piercing agony that shot up through my ankle and into my calf. Instinctively, my hand flew to the source of the discomfort, and I found myself wobbling, unsteady and disoriented, the world tilting at angles that made no sense. I landed back on the tent floor with a heavy thud that drove the air from my lungs and sent another jolt of pain cascading through me.

The impact drew tears to my eyes. Not just from the physical hurt — though that was considerable — but from the emotional turmoil that churned beneath my ribs like something alive and wounded.

My body ached. Each bruise and abrasion was a testament to the night's struggles, a map of my failure written on my own flesh. But it was the memory of Rose's voice that cut the deepest. Calling out to me in the darkness. Daddy. So clear. So desperate. So real that I could still hear the echo of it even now, even with light streaming through the canvas and birds that didn't exist refusing to sing.

The physical pain, intense as it was, paled in comparison to the ache in my heart. The thought of my daughter — real or imagined, and I still couldn't accept that word, couldn't let it settle — reaching out to me in a moment of fear. And my inability to protect her. To reassure her. To find her in that hungry black.

It was a burden that the morning light could not dispel. A shadow that clung to me despite the new day.

Crawling across the ground felt both humbling and necessary. The blanket clutched in my grasp became a makeshift shield against the chill of morning — and against my own nakedness, a vulnerability I remembered with distant horror. As I navigated my way through the tent's open flap, the act of standing was a cautious negotiation with a body that no longer trusted my judgement. My right foot was a traitor that threatened to buckle under any semblance of pressure, and I couldn't blame it. I had led it into fire.

With the blanket wrapped securely around my waist, I limped towards the edge of our temporary shelter. The canopy's farthest reach offered a vantage point into the vast unknown of Clivilius — that endless expanse of dust and sky and nothing that stretched in every direction like a promise of isolation.

"Rose!" My voice, fuelled by a mixture of hope and desperation, cut through the silence of morning. It sounded wrong out here. Too thin. Too human. "Where are you?"

The absence of an answer was a weight upon my heart. Only the echo of my own voice came back, distorted by distance and the peculiar acoustics of a world that had no buildings to bounce sound, no trees to absorb it, nothing but flat earth and empty sky.

"You had a nightmare, Paul." A voice reached out to me from the left — firm and grounding in a way that felt almost like an accusation. "Rose isn't here."

The words were meant to reassure. I understood that. Jamie was trying to anchor me to reality, to pull me back from whatever edge I was teetering on. Yet the statement sowed seeds of confusion in its wake, because I had heard her. I had heard her as clearly as I could hear Jamie now. How could something so vivid, so undeniable, be reduced to the word nightmare?

I shook my head, struggling to align this reality with the vividness of what I had experienced. "I don't understand."

My gaze found Jamie sitting at the edge of the river, a solitary figure against the backdrop of water that moved with deceptive tranquility. His feet dangled over the bank, breaking the surface in idle patterns that seemed to belong to a different kind of morning — a peaceful one, an ordinary one, the kind of morning that existed only in the world we had left behind.

Hesitation gripped me as I took in the scene around us. The tent's left wing had succumbed to the night's fury, canvas hanging limp and defeated like a flag of surrender. The ground, once marred by the evidence of our presence — footprints, scattered supplies, the remnants of our campfire — now bore a fresh layer of dust. As if Clivilius itself had sought to erase our footprint while we slept. To render us ghosts upon its surface before we had even properly begun to haunt it.

The sight of Jamie, seemingly at peace by the water's edge, offered a stark contrast to the storm still raging inside me. How could he sit there so calmly? How could his feet make those lazy circles in the water when the world had tried to kill us only hours ago?

I approached him, and the disparity between his calm exterior and the turmoil within me was almost painful. His feet, idly kicking at the water, seemed to mock the intensity of the night's events. A reminder of the fine line between reality and the nightmares that haunted us — and the fact that Jamie apparently stood firmly on one side of that line while I remained stranded somewhere in the middle.

"The water will help soothe your foot."

Jamie's suggestion came as gentle encouragement, his voice carrying a warmth of concern that felt at odds with our situation. With a hesitant motion, I swept the blanket aside just enough to look down at my feet. The sight that greeted me was one of distress — both feet were an angry red, the skin tight and tender, the sting palpable even without any contact. Burns. From the coals I didn't remember stepping on. From a fire I had mistaken for my daughter.

Maybe Jamie's right. The thought offered a sliver of concession, though not acceptance. The idea of cool river water against my ravaged skin was the first pleasant notion I had entertained since waking.

As I made my way to the river's edge, I couldn't help but notice the similar marks of distress on Jamie's skin. His arms, exposed and vulnerable in the morning light, bore the telltale signs of our shared ordeal. Red welts and abrasions that spoke of his own battle with the dust and the wind and the darkness. He had saved me, I remembered that much. Had pulled me from the edge of the fire pit. Had held me afterward, when I had nothing left but the need to be held.

Settling myself gingerly beside him, I took extra care with the blanket. Modesty seemed absurd given what Jamie had already witnessed — my complete breakdown, my nakedness, my sobbing like a child in his arms — but the instinct persisted. Some veneers are harder to shed than others.

The moment my foot touched the water, a sigh of relief escaped me, unbidden but deeply felt.

"That does feel good." I admitted, the sensation of coolness against the heat of my burns bringing an immediate, though temporary, respite. The river's touch was gentle, almost apologetic, as if this world was capable of kindness after all. I found myself adjusting the blanket around my waist, ensuring I remained covered against a self-consciousness that seemed to have survived everything else.

Allowing my eyes to close, I surrendered to the sensation of water enveloping my feet. The occasional sharp pang of pain served as punctuation, each sting a reminder that last night had been real, that the damage to my body was not imagined even if — and I still couldn't fully accept this — other things had been. Despite the discomfort, the water was a balm. Its gentle flow offered a moment of peace amid the turmoil of memories and confusion that refused to settle.

The events of last night lingered at the edge of my consciousness, fragmented and disorienting. The sound of Rose's voice, so clear and so desperate, haunted me still. Daddy. It had felt so real. So undeniable in the moment. The darkness had pressed in and her voice had cut through it like the only light that mattered, and I had followed it because what father wouldn't? What father could hear his child calling and choose to stay safe?

Maybe Jamie can help me understand.

The need to piece together the events, to make sense of what I had experienced versus what had actually happened, grew more pressing.

"Last night was a fucking disaster." Jamie's words cut through the calm the river had begun to build, snapping me back to a harsher truth.

I found myself at a loss for words. The events of the night were still a jumbled mess in my mind — shards of memory that didn't fit together properly, edges that cut when I tried to handle them.

"I guess." I murmured, my gaze drifting across the river, seeking something in its flow that might make sense of the confusion. The water moved with such certainty, such clear purpose. It knew where it was going. It didn't question whether the banks were real.

"What happened to my foot?" The question hung between us, a tangible reminder of the physical consequences of the night's madness. I knew the answer, or thought I did, but the knowledge felt secondhand. Borrowed. Like something I had read rather than lived.

"You don't remember?" Jamie's incredulity was palpable, a mirror to my own confusion. Of course I should remember. It was my foot. My pain. My terror that had driven me out into the storm.

My face contorted as I strained to piece together the fragments of memory. But they slipped away, elusive and fragmented. The harder I grasped, the faster they scattered. I shrugged — an admission of defeat that cost more than the simple gesture suggested.

"You went running out of the tent in pitch blackness, in the middle of a fucking dust storm and trod on hot coals from last night's campfire."

Jamie recounted the events with the bluntness of someone who had witnessed them without the filter of panic. His words painted a vivid picture of my folly — the blind rush into danger, the complete abandonment of reason.

"And all for a voice that wasn't real."

Burning anger flared up in me, swift and defensive. A visceral response to his dismissal of what I had experienced. He hadn't been inside my head. He hadn't heard what I had heard.

"How do you know it wasn't real?" I found myself demanding, the conviction in my own recollection clashing with his scepticism like flint against steel. "I heard Rose as clear as I can see this water right now."

I gestured at the river flowing past our feet, its reality beyond question. The water was there. I could see it, feel it, hear its gentle movement over rocks and sand. Rose's voice had been just as present, just as undeniable. How could one be real and the other a figment?

Jamie's heavy sigh served as a prelude to his response, delivered with a slow, deliberate calm that somehow made it worse.

"Pure blackness can make the mind go crazy."

The suggestion offered little comfort. A theory that couldn't be easily dismissed, but one that shook the foundations of everything I thought I knew about myself. About the reliability of my own perceptions.

My initial resistance softened, giving way to something more frightening: contemplation.

Is Jamie right? The question wormed its way through my defences, planting seeds of doubt in soil I had thought was bedrock. Is my mind going crazy already?

The thought was unsettling — a possibility that threatened the very foundation of my sense of self. If I couldn't trust my own senses, my own memories, what could I trust? If the darkness could conjure my daughter's voice with such perfect fidelity that I would run through fire to reach her, what else might it conjure? What other lies might it tell that I would believe absolutely?

Daddy.

The voice echoed again in my mind, unbidden and undimmed by Jamie's rational explanations. A haunting reminder of what had driven me into the night. And despite everything — despite the burns on my feet, despite the logical impossibility of Rose being here, despite Jamie's calm certainty that I had chased nothing but my own madness — the emotional pull of that moment was undeniable.

And with it came something else. Something that surprised me with its clarity.

A renewed determination. A resolve that felt both desperate and essential.

If I'm going to be trapped in Clivilius forever. The thought solidified with a conviction that brooked no argument. I need my kids here with me.

The realisation was a beacon, cutting through the fog of confusion and fear. Whatever had happened last night — whether Rose's voice had been real or imagined, whether I was losing my grip on sanity or simply encountering the particular cruelties of this world's darkness — one thing remained absolutely certain. Mack and Rose belonged with their father. And if I was going to be trapped here, stranded in this alien wasteland with no way home, then I would not rest until they were beside me.

Making the settlement thrive. Ensuring our survival. It became more than just a necessity. It was a mission. A way to forge a semblance of home in the vast unknown, driven by love for my children and the unyielding desire to reunite with them against all odds.

If the darkness wanted to use Rose's voice to torment me, fine. But it had also reminded me what mattered. And I would not forget again.

"I'm going to go fix the tent." Jamie announced, his voice carrying a pragmatic resolve that momentarily lifted the veil of uncertainty that had settled over me.

"And this sun is feeling very warm already. You'd better get some clothes on. I hate to say it, but we may be spending a lot of time in the tent until we can get more shelter."

The advice, though practical, served as a stark reminder of our precarious situation. Exposed to elements that had already proven themselves hostile. Limited resources. Limited options. Limited everything except dust and sky and the endless empty that surrounded us.

As Jamie walked away, his figure a blend of determination and resignation against the morning light, I turned back to the river. Seeking one more moment of solace in its cool embrace before facing the day's demands.

Lifting my burnt foot from the water, I noted with a mixture of relief and concern that the redness persisted, though the pain had ebbed to something almost manageable. The thought of treating it properly crossed my mind, accompanied by the realisation of our limited medical supplies. What did we have? A basic first aid kit, if that. Nothing designed for burns. Nothing that would—

"Shit!" The exclamation burst from me as the reality of our circumstances came into sharp focus once again.

I'll have to get Luke to bring some cream first!

The notion was a reminder of our reliance on Luke for supplies. A dependency that chafed against my desire for autonomy, for control, for the ability to solve my own problems without waiting for rescue. I had run businesses. I had made decisions that affected dozens of employees, hundreds of customers. And now I couldn't even treat a burn without asking my younger brother for help.

With cautious effort, I got to my feet. The action was more deliberate than graceful — a negotiation between will and capability that capability nearly won. I limped over to Jamie, who was already assessing the damage to the tent with the air of someone cataloguing problems he didn't have solutions for.

"Have you seen Luke yet this morning?" The question was as much about gauging Luke's whereabouts as it was an attempt to reconnect with Jamie. To bridge whatever distance the night had created between us — or revealed.

"Nope." Jamie replied, his tone laced with a bitterness that seemed to go deeper than the immediate frustrations of our situation.

"Luke seems to be working to his own fucking agenda."

The harshness of his words struck a chord within me. A dissonance that resonated with my own feelings of isolation and helplessness, even as it raised questions about what was happening between Jamie and my brother.

I frowned, the irritation rising before I could contain it.

"Do you really have to be so negative? And do you have to swear every second sentence?"

The questions came out sharper than I intended. But I was tired and in pain and still not entirely convinced that I hadn't heard my daughter calling for me in the darkness, and Jamie's relentless profanity was one more abrasion on already raw nerves.

"Yes." Jamie answered defiantly, a spark of rebellion in his eyes that seemed to welcome the confrontation. "Yes, I fucking do."

The response was unyielding, almost proud. A reminder of the raw edges that our circumstances were exposing in each of us. The ways in which this unsettled environment was stripping away the veneers of civility and revealing the raw nerves beneath. Jamie had held me last night while I sobbed, had saved me from falling into fire, had offered comfort without judgement. And now, in the light of day, we were snapping at each other like strangers who had been forced to share too small a space.

If the darkness and the unknown threats of Clivilius weren't enough to send my mind into a frenzy, Jamie's demeanour threatened to push me over whatever edge remained. We were supposed to be in this together. We were supposed to be building something, surviving something. And instead we were picking at each other's wounds because it was easier than facing the enormity of what lay ahead.

With a mix of resignation and resolve, I pushed my way back inside the tent.

I may as well get dressed. That's something I can actually do.

The thought was small, almost pathetic in its modesty. But it was mine. A decision I could make, an action I could complete, in a world that had stripped away so much of my agency. I would put on clothes. I would treat my burns as best I could. I would wait for Luke and ask for supplies. And I would keep thinking about how to bring my children here, because that was the only thought that made any of this bearable.

Rose's voice still echoed in the back of my mind. Daddy. Whether memory or madness, it would drive me forward. It would have to.