Saturday, October 26, 2013

A Work Of Fiction


This is a short story I wrote. It's based on my own experiences at the lowest point in my life but is, as a whole, a work of fiction. I felt it fitting to post here.

In my Darkness


I found myself walking on the beach one night. It was so late it was early as my feet sank into the now cold sand. I passed the transients camped along the wall separating the sand from the boardwalk as I reached the rock jetty and turned toward the water. I began picking my way across the rocks under a moonless sky, fully aware that I was putting myself into a corner-- my only company that night being of a not so trustworthy sort. Should someone rise from their sleeping bag and follow me out onto the jetty with the intent to do me harm I had no recourse there, only ocean waves and sharp rocks. But I was not naive. I was ambivalent.
These were my thoughts as I moved methodically out to the end of the rocks where the waves splashed, and breathed as they were sucked back into the abyss. But these thoughts didn’t scare me because I had gone numb. My soul had died...no, not died--it was fried. It was still alive in an emotional skin so charred that consciousness was painful. And there was no event to look to, no particular fire that blazed one day melting and scarring my soul into an aching, gasping, useless life, inside a perfect physical shell. There was no reason. I guess maybe it was a slow sort of burn.
Months ago I found myself tired--tired all the time and then sad. I didn’t know why, I just was. “You seem depressed,” my friends would say. “I have nothing to be depressed about,” I would reply. But I knew that I was. Then the ugly thoughts, cravings for pain, a strange notion that watching myself bleed would make me feel better. The terror that would follow these thoughts when I found myself walking around the house clutching the blade end of a knife while my son napped. Crying spells where I couldn’t breath, feeling as if I were being attacked from the inside out.
With each of these events a piece of my goodness died, a piece of my beauty withered, bits of my soul fell away charred and crumbling and I bled inside. The pain became unbearable and like someone in a horrific accident passing out, I shut down. I let my soul sleep and my body just went on.
This was how I found myself on the beach at 2:00 in the morning, stepping from rock to rock, slipping, nearly falling into the swirling water, regaining my balance, continuing on. There was no reason. I was just there. At some point I would reach the last rock but my thoughts didn’t go that far. Maybe I would turn around and walk back, maybe I would jump in and let the sensation of freezing water give me something to feel, or maybe I would just sit and wait the four hours till the sky began to lighten.
The wind was gentle, chilly but soft, and the waves were loud but not constant. Between their crashing it was quiet. That was when I heard it-- rock hitting rock, a sound from behind. I turned and saw the dark figure of a man approaching me, carefully working his way across the slippery black rocks. This was it. Something was about to happen to bring my physical world in line with my emotional world. Rape, robbery, in a moment I would know and all I could think was, ‘how fitting.’ I already felt as if I had lived through such horror, so I stood, and I waited. My heart began to beat a little faster but I found the fear comforting, a sign of life. And desire for self preservation began to rise in me,  but I knew I had nowhere to go. So I reached into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around my keys, their points protruding from my knuckles. He was only a few feet away now, and then, nearly at arms length the man stopped and then spoke. His voice was deep and worn.
“This is no place for a young lady at this hour.”  He yelled to be heard over the waves
Then he stepped to the next rock and reached out his hand. I could see his face now, a grey beard and soft eyes, a cap on his head. His rough hand remained outstretched toward me. My heart quieted. The grip on my keys loosened. A large wave crashed and water splashed my feet. I stepped toward him onto the next rock in a dazed sort of way and gave the man my hand. He steadied me as I stepped and when I reached him he released my hand and took my elbow like a young person would for a weakening elder or like a Victorian gentleman would for a lady crossing a muddy street. In this way we stepped together from rock to rock. When we reached the sand he released my arm.
“Now thats better,” he said brightly.
“Thank you,” I replied but more out of politeness than sincerity.
“Go home sweetheart.” His voice had a fatherly tone, directing and pleading at the same time. I nodded.
“Okay.” I heard the word slip from my lips and the man smiled. I turned and began to walk back through the cold sand toward the wall and the boardwalk, toward the parking lot and my car, toward home. Then he called after me, his voice carrying on the salty air.
“The morning will come soon.” I didn’t turn around but the words repeated in my mind. “The morning will come soon.”

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