or the hollowness of your feelings not making sense.
― Holly Black
Glimpse of Horror
It bothers me I can't recall details of the shooting. I know forgetting is the body's way of protecting from trauma, but I'm not sure what's worse―the absence of pain or the frustration of trying to remember.
We're sentient creatures and we can't help it. We need to make sense of our experience, even if it's horrific.
And so I'm sitting here before a fire the way humans have for millennia, trying to console myself that nature knows better than me what will best ensure my survival, but I still want to bridge that gap and make sense of what happened to me.
There's rain falling out there, as I suppose there have been showers every spring for centuries and the monotonous beat charms my mind to sleep despite my attempts to riddle out my circumstances.
In my dreams my thoughts naturally flow back to that day outside the international student union. Denis Primak, one of my colleagues, had invited me to a luncheon in support of Ukraine and we had just arrived when shots rang out.
The same chaotic blur of shadows and movement replay again inside me—the gunfire and screams, the sound of a truck engine nearby, and boots on the pavement.
Again, the same shock and bewilderment, but as the truck pulls away I glimpse a decal on the back and then again, I'm pulled to my feet by Denis who pushes me into a doorway where we crouch in fear and trembling.
I awaken this time on the couch just as I did the night after the incident, in a cold sweat and shivering.
And again, I lie gasping as if I just escaped drowning—and perhaps I did.
There's the same chaos and confusion roiling within me but the roar I hear is not a truck engine, but the thunder of the storm raging above me.
I open my eyes to a room blue with lightning and dark pines outside swaying slowly in the wind like seaweed.
There's an afghan blanket Tara crocheted that's draped over the sofa chair and I wrap it around me for warmth as I ponder my dream.
I saw something that looked familiar but can't place it. It looked like two angular lightning bolts and I know it's a symbol I saw before but can't recall where.
I go on Google images and type a phrase into the search box, Two angular lightning bolts, and scan through the images.
Within seconds I see the same image that was plastered on the back of the truck pulling away from the student union—it turns out they’re runic symbols. The two sharp s's stand for the Nazi SS.
I feel a tingle of fear creeping up the nape of my neck. What the hell is going on?
Compulsively, I begin another search and find myself immersed in a dark world of runic scripts and Icelandic folklore. I see terms like Aryan and Nordic, but I'm no student of history, but know someone who is—Denis who pulled me out of danger into the safety of that doorway.
I glance at my i-phone—it’s just after ten pm—not terribly late, so I punch in Denis' number. He picks up right away.
"Hey, Jude! How are you getting on out in the country? Recuperating, I hope."
"Hi Denis, I'm surviving, but got a flashback tonight and wanted to ask you about it, if it's not too late."
"It's not too late. Sounds serious, though."
"I had a dream tonight and part of a memory resurfaced—just a glimpse of a decal that was on the truck I told you about. It consisted of two angular s's like lightning bolts. Before I get involved in some wacko conspiracy theory, does this have a benign interpretation?"
He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "I'd like to say it does, but that's highly unlikely."
"Okay," I sigh, "what's your take on it?"
"Send me an image of what you saw, but from what you're describing, it's a symbol associated with white supremacy—some people in alt-right groups have it tattooed on their bodies the way the Nazi SS did."
"I just sent you the image."
"Yeah, I just got it—it's the symbol of the The Schutzstaffel , the Protection Squadron, or SS which was the agency responsible for surveillance and terror in Nazi Germany.
"So, what does that mean nowadays?"
"It could mean a right-wing militia group who opposes supporting Ukraine. These far right groups have various agendas but that could explain the motive for attacking the luncheon."
I feel a dark shadow come over me and find it hard to breathe.
"I guess I should mention this to the police."
"It would certainly give them a lead to pursue. Keep in touch, Jude, and let me know if any other details come back to you. I think this will help in tracking these guys.”
After I finish the call with Denis, an overwhelming sense of despair floods over me.
It seems all of society is becoming polarized, making the world a very dangerous place. Previously, I had prided myself on being apolitical but somehow violence has found me and next time I may not escape.
I had hoped retreating to a small town might help me, but now it seems the process might entail getting further involved.
It seems ironic that the way out might involve going further in.