text: “You gotta be careful with that acid on account of you can do it, and then, you could have a flashback like ten years could pass, twenty years could pass, and then, you get a flashback. So I thought...well that sounds like a good deal.” Norm Macdonald Flashback It’s Christmas five years ago. His wife isn’t there but he’s not alone. She called earlier in the day to let him know she’d come up the second the snow cleared. That was before the power went out. He’s staring outside his cabin window, staring at the cloud of snow, contemplating the worst possible outcomes. *** He wakes up in the middle of the night. He had a dream about that Christmas five years ago. Again, the snow has cut the power and blocked the roads. Again, he’s plagued with the same panic he felt that same night. Again, his chronic hyperventilation makes him gasp and grow hungry for air. Again, he feels like he has no control over anything. This time, however, his wife is by his side and his daughter sleeps in the other room. He feels strange. A strangeness all too similar to that regretful night. He feels like he’s hungover, but he didn’t drink last night. The ceiling looks like it’s a mile above his head. He looks down. He’s afraid the fall from his bed might kill him. *** The woman he’s with is fixing drinks in the kitchen. He needs to talk to her. To tell her this a mistake. That this can’t happen. His hand shakes. It takes him five tries to light his cigarette. He’s rehearsing the lines in his head. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. He hears the sound of sugar being muddled in an empty glass as the woman sings Baby, It’s Cold Outside softly to herself in the kitchen. *** He sits up straight and touches his bare feet to the cold hardwood floor. The feeling is painful at first, but quickly, his mind fixates onto new pains. He puts on his slippers and quietly, so to not wake his wife, slides his feet upon the wood panels to exit the room. He’s in the hallway. He flips the light switch. He remembers the power is out. He wonders why his legs feel so flimsy. Like the bones have slid right out of them. He grabs for anything on the walls to help support him as he makes his way towards the kitchen. *** The woman that isn’t his wife returns from the kitchen. She sets two drinks down on the living room coffee table. She sits herself down next to him and leans into his reluctant arms. “I’m sorry...but...this probably shouldn’t happen.” He’s ashamed that he just butchered his own lines. “You don’t expect me to leave...now...during a blizzard...do you?” “You can’t be here when my wife gets here.” She grabs his chin with her fingertips and gently turns his head to look at her. “I won’t be. I promise.” She reaches for the two glasses on the coffee table and hands him one. “Let’s just enjoy the night...shall we?” “What’s in it?” “Brandy...Seven Up...and lots of sugar.” He takes a drink. “Mmm...good.” *** He’s forgotten about his legs entirely. His unquenchable thirst is the only thing on his mind now. He’s making himself a drink in the kitchen. He doesn’t know what he’s pouring. Something brown. Something to take the edge off. Something to help him finally forget five years ago. It won’t work. Nothing ever has. As he pours, he contemplates the reasons why the torture is so much more unbearable tonight than all other nights. *** He finishes his drink and sets it on the table. He breaths a sigh of relief. His mind is clearer and in a better place now. “Feeling better?” the woman asks. “Much better. Thanks. I needed that.” “Well...you’ll be feeling a lot better in just a few minutes.” “Thanks...but...I’m sorry...but this shouldn’t...this should not happen!” “Not what I meant,” she says as she shakes her head sadistically. “What do you mean then?” “Well...let’s just say I put a little something extra in our drinks. Something to help take the edge off.” He stands up. His chronic hyperventilation sets in. His face goes flush from panic and anger. “What did you put in my drink?!” “Just a little LSD.” She grabs his trembling hand, “Don’t worry...you’ll thank me later. Let’s just sit back...relax...and enjoy the trip together.” He struggles for air like he’s breathing the last bit of oxygen on earth. No matter how long or how deep he inhales, his lungs stay deflated. He’s going to faint. Going to fall and bash his head against the corner of the coffee table and leave a pool of blood on the living room floor. A pool of evidence. Evidence of his infidelity. She lays him down on the couch to prevent the worst. He uses every last breath he can spare to shout out his wife’s name over and over again until he sails off into dream. *** He sits down in the living room chair with his drink in hand. He grabs the TV remote with his free hand and presses power. He remembers again that the power is out. He looks at the TV. Colors and people appear on the screen. He sees his wife standing in the corner of the living room. She’s watching her husband share a drink with a woman that’s not her. She bends down and her daughter appears by her side. She whispers in her daughter’s ear, “Daddy doesn’t love us anymore.” He falls to the floor crying silently. He’s trying to remember how to breath. *** He wakes up in the same place he had passed out the night before. He doesn’t see anyone else around. He finds his belt on the coffee table. He takes the belt in his hand. Bent in half, he squeezes it tight. The belt widens and then flattens as he presses his forehead into the crease. He sees a note just to the left of where the belt was. The note reads: Thanks for the great night! Hit me up whenever you’re back in town. You know where to find me. Love, Zoe He runs to the sink and throws up. He can’t remember anything. Not after passing out at least. He can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse. He wipes the excess vomit off of his lips with his hand. His wedding ring reflects sunlight from the window and calls his attention. He stares at it. His thumb rotates it around the base of his finger. He recalls how the previous morning he looked upon the ring with pride. He walks over to the light switch. The power is still out. He checks the window. The roads are cleared. A blue SUV pulls into the driveway. It’s his wife and newborn daughter. He turns around and grabs the note from off of the coffee table. He crumples it up and discards it into his pocket. He puts his belt back on, missing a loop in the process. He goes to open the door for his wife and child. *** He’s hearing the words over and over again in his head. This time they’re spoken by his wife: I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. Did it happen? Did anything actually happen? For years he’s agonized over whether or not his paranoia was rooted in delusion. What if that night began and ended the second he passed out? It’s possible. Maybe likely even. He has to know for sure. He can’t go on like this. He pulls himself up off the ground. He grabs his hat and coat and walks to the door with nothing on his feet but his slippers. He remembers that Zoe’s house is only a few blocks down the road. He gave her a ride there during the blizzard five years ago when he saw her struggling in the snow. If only she had gotten out of the car when he dropped her off that night. If only she hadn’t convinced him to take her with him. That she couldn’t be alone for the night. Things would’ve been different. He promised himself he’d never talk to or see her again. He has to break that promise. It’s time to know the truth. He pushes the door open. He’s trudging through thick mounds of snow to reach the highway. He’s holding his hat down so a gust of wind doesn’t blow it off. His other hand shields his face from the snow. He trucks over a snowman he had made with this daughter earlier that day. It was covered to its waist in snow. He carries on. He’s at the road. He can tell its been plowed within the last couple of hours. The snow covering it is matted down and slippery. Nothing he’s never walked on before. He just has to be careful. He slides down it like he did in his curling days. One foot at a time. One ahead of the other. His legs are numb. They’ll be warm again soon. His feet are in the early stages of frostbite. He’s had worse. His face is flushed. His breathing tightens. He’s exhaling more than he’s inhaling. He stops. Hands on knees. Defeat. The wind rips his hat off his head. He sees it land about twenty feet up the road. He slides his feet towards it and slips on his way there. He army crawls the rest of the way. He reaches the hat and takes it in his hand. He sits up straight and beats the hat against his thigh to shake off the snow. He looks up ahead. He sees two yellow lights approaching in the distance. The lights illuminate a thick white cloud of snow as it churns everything in its path. He jumps to his feet to get out of the way. He takes one step to the side of the road. He slips. The lights illuminate a red cloud of snow as it churns everything in its path. The roads are cleared but the power remains out. *** His wife walks into the house carrying their daughter. He kisses both of them. “How was the drive?” he asks. “Good!” she says. “Really good. I think we picked a good area to buy this cabin. They don’t wait around to plow the roads here like they do back home.” “That’s great!”