By Nancy Mccabe
One evening in 1990, a stranger lower the reveal out of Nancy McCabe's bed room window whereas she slept and shone a flashlight into her eyes as she woke. a number of weeks later, her father got here down with transitority amnesia. even if unrelated, those occasions grew to become associated in her brain, sweeping out from below her the basics many people take without any consideration: defense, freedom, the soundness of reminiscence, and a common oblivion to mortality. After the Flashlight guy is the tale of ways one writer got here to phrases with those stories that threw her existence right into a entire new gentle: the self-defense sessions, rape situation volunteer paintings, writing, and meditation that served as checkpoints alongside her therapeutic trip whereas she re tested occasions from her early life and relationships with friends and family. finally, a flashlight grew to become opposed to her as a strange weapon turned as an alternative a metaphorical device that blazed her course, the impetus to reclaim, recast, and inform her personal tales, researching her personal strength to reinvent her imaginative and prescient of her existence.
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Additional resources for After the Flashlight Man: A Memoir of Awakening
The rose-and-trellis wallpaper had been replaced by paneling and by the bared teeth and spiky hair of heavy metal stars. The closet door hung askew and all the windows had been papered with aluminum foil to block out the sun. A hamster ran mindlessly on its wheel, permeating the room with a vague urine smell. It shook me up, how easily all signs of my presence had been erased. Coming home, sleeping in this room, I’d reach The One that Got Away out in the darkness, remembering where my desk, my books had been, blindly I reached out into empty spaces.
He asks. Mom drops a towel she has folded three times and fumbles to find the labels on the mattress. “I thought it was standard,” Dad says. “It is,” Mom says in a firm voice that should settle the matter. “Here, Bill, you’re right. ” Dad fingers the baggies. Peruses the directions. Shakes the box. Same facial expressions, same slightly jerky movements. Looks up as if seeing me for the first time. ” he asks me. “I don’t know how many times he’s shaken that box,” Mom says. ” Dad asks. “You already asked me that,” I say.
As I turn onto The One that Got Away my old street, another car’s headlights blind me. Rain blurs all the streetlights. I haven’t been in the old apartment at night since the one Shelley spent with me. I know rationally just as I knew then that the Flashlight Man won’t be there waiting. I’ll go in quickly, leave quickly, and soon I’ll be safe in my own standard-sized bed in my own new upstairs apartment with steel doors and deadbolts and chains and window rods—my new apartment with oversized windows without curtains or blinds yet, all that dark glass opening my life up to the world.