A Short Story
A collapsed heap of rubble, mortar and timber. Waves of murky ocean lapping at the edges of the concrete frame, each rolling ebb and flow plucking and corroding just a little more. The roof sunk in the middle, leaning and groaning as the elements steal back what used to be a house.
The last remaining house on Holland Island.
******
Looking at it now, you would never have guessed there used to be a whole community in this area. The encroaching shoreline is steadily working on seeping away the last remnants of humanity. White froth gathers at the edges of the small muddy waves, seagulls float serenely overhead, some settling imperiously on the crumbling tile roof, their webbed feet bright against the slick mossy filth.
Everyday the house sinks a little lower into the sand. One day there will no longer be anything left of the thriving village, no marks of man having ever settled or lived on what used to be an island, but is now nothing more than a lonesome rock determined to drown before the year is done.
The sun sets along the horizon, casting golden streams of light across the ever bobbing waves, the water glittering and flashing as it greedily laps away small chunks of brick. Purple shadows begin to deepen in the cloudless sky. The seagulls holler and squark away, fighting ruthlessly over whatever small fish they manage to capture, their beaks clicking and snatching in a frenzy of white feathers.
Tourists bustle along the bayside, chatting and laughing, enjoying the warmth of the lasting summer light, caught in the enticing glow of the restaurants and bars scattered along the boardwalk. The darkness will settle like a thick blanket in the sky, but it won’t reach the lively array that exists just far enough back for the ocean to see, but never touch.
The fractured windows sit empty and gaunt in the house’s once red brick walls, shattered glass hanging perilously in the mouldering wooden frames. Small drafts of sea wind blow through the gaps, scattering dust along rotting floorboards and into damp, black corners. The furniture remains, all still set in place as though the previous owner had simply popped out for a walk and never returned. A rusting iron bed rests crookedly against a leaning wall, mattress and sheets frayed, the once vivid blue quilt now faded and infested with sea lice.
The house soon begins its nightly orchestration, a cacophony of lonely sounds. The creaks as the foundation and support beams along the walls sway with the tide, a light whistle of wind through the broken glass, the faint thumping of waves; much louder now than it ever has been, and the occasional scuttle of crab legs below in the flooded basement.
It’s a desolate place. A sad place, considering all that it once was, and all it was meant to be. The solitary reminder of a small community, now falling to pieces and condemning those trapped inside to a watery grave.
A moon pale flash of skin emerges from the corner. The bed springs make nary a sound as the small form sits up and pushes away to stand facing the grey, smudged window. Large doe eyes peer mournfully out at the charmingly lit bay, face expressing all their desire to join in, to laugh instead of cry, smile rather than frown. To belong as opposed to the lonely existence they’ve come to know and despise. Once they may have had a name. Once, they may even have wandered along the thin stretch of Earth to join the mainland for a day of pleasure with their family. Once, they had a heartbeat, a life to call their own, to treasure and enjoy.
Once …
A hand rests heavily on the splintering window frame, the shadow of flesh and blood pressing down but never disturbing the slivers of silvery wood. If there were breath to be spared it would have made small clouds of condensation on the swiftly cooling glass, small beads of water that twinkle like tiny diamonds in the light of the moon as it rises into its’ apex in the velvety sky.
Eyes that may have once been a deep dark brown are raised and staring longingly at the life ridden boardwalk. A pearly fingernail of moon is reflected in the surface of the window, a gleam of nearly absent light. Her fingernails scrape against the timber, but no mark is left to document their progress. The only indication she had moved at all is the aching sigh of her arm cutting through the stale air, so far removed from the continuous rush of frothy water below.
“There’s no point.” A faint tremulous hiss, only a whisper of what once was. It is breathy, empty. A second pair of silvery eyes emerge from the gloomy corner ensconced in darkness so great it appeared to suck all other available light in. Pulling away from the sticky tar of darkness is a shape, wobbling and wavering but definitely there. Taller, thinner and a fraction lighter, the second figure doesn’t go near the moonlit window. Doesn’t want to see the beautiful golden glow of life emanating from the shore.
“There is.” She doesn’t turn, instead keeping her empty gaze fully fixed on the jewel bright cadence of the shoreline. If she cranes her head enough, tilts to just the right angle, she can hear the bubbly laughter and animated voices of people. People having fun, enjoying their night none the wiser to the house sitting, sinking, isolated in the steely water.
“It only hurts more to see it now.”
She doesn’t respond. It’s been the same for a while now, but she can’t let it go. Isn’t willing to toss it all aside.
“At least I’m feeling something.”
And that’s the bare bones of it all. She doesn’t pine for life out of desire to breathe, feel her heart thumping under her warm skin. It isn’t about that. It isn’t about living for the sake of living, not like he wishes and had given up on eons ago. It’s about feeling. No matter what that feeling, it’s a sign she’s here. It doesn’t matter what form she may take, it never has. Feeling is better than existing. Feeling keeps her human, as human as they come. Because only humans can accurately feel, can put into words what it means to laugh, to cry, to feel bone melting anger. To know what longing is and how it digs a deep, never ending hollow in your chest. Feeling is the barrier between being human or existing as a shadow, a mere imprint of humanity on a planet moving too quickly to look back and notice.
A shade of life left behind with nothing inside but a grey cloud of white noise is what threatens to become her if she lets go. And in this last house on Holland Island, she gives over to the pain. Just to feel something. To prevent the fog that drifts inevitably on the horizon threatening to steal it all away and turn her numb.
“But is it better that way?”
End
