refuge: a thank you

The city lights, blurred by rain pounding the windscreen, mock my pounding head. Flashing reds and blues, greens and ambers, piercing whites, and a garish spectrum of neon signs create a crashing symphony of pain behind my eyes. Perhaps it was the heady perfume that filled the train carriage on my commute home, but it could well have been the storm itself that started it. Like some kind of torturous oracle, a migraine always portends heavy weather.

I had to take a taxi from the station. The walk from Brixton tube to our house may be short, but it was too loud, too bright (even on this dark November night), too much for the fireworks in my head. It's all too much, and I need to be home: to you, and to tea, and to warmth, and to the dark comfort of our bed.

Years ago, my beloved cat was struck by a car while making his rounds of the neighbourhood. I was calling him home from the porch, as I did every evening, when he dragged his broken body into the yard. He locked eyes with me in singular determination, making for the stairs, and I ran out to scoop him up. I remember this now, and I feel at this moment as I imagine he did then: me, half-crawling up the steep Victorian steps to our door: uncertain I’ll make it, ringing the bell (because finding keys requires more than I have to give), hoping my person can do something to put me back together.

You open the door, and I crumble into your arms. Hot, silent tears soak my cheeks, and your shoulder, your neck. You bring me water and pills. You put me in a warm bath, and I hug my knees and rock there in the dark listening to the rain against the frosted bathroom window, sound now dulled by double glazing and the safety of home. Our ancient faucet marks time with a slow, steady drip, lulling my mind like the sound of a heart.

I don’t know how long I’ve been in the water when I finally stand, dripping, and wrap myself in a towel, warm from the radiator. Time passes slowly. I walk unsteady, silent and weary up the hall, past the living room, and I pour myself into bed. You bring a cool cloth for my head and sit beside me in the dark. You lay your hand on my back, and I sink safely into the deepest of sleeps. I am home.