Good evening / Morning folks.
I hope you are all well. Once again, I found that words came to me when I should have been asleep! So this is the second short story of the week and I am hoping this is just building up my strengthto write the sequel of The Siblings.
I am looking forward to reading this weekend, catching up on the blogs I have been neglecting and arranging things to do that is not just stuck indoors.
Enough of me, on to the story. Another experiment written in first person which I’m still uncomfortable with. Hope you enjoy.
My life at dawn
I am not blinded by the horrors of the world, for I see the beauty it beholds. Each morning I sit along the shore line, linen trousers turned up to my knees, my crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and dab my bare feet into the salt sea water. I watch the beautiful transition from dusk to dawn unfold in front of my very eyes.
I most admire the colour change. From the dull skies that break away to allow the glorious light shine through that is our day. Once the sun has presented itself in all of its glory, I stand and walk the sandy beach along the shore line, the waves lapping up against my ankles.
My mind time and time again drifts off away from the plight of my existence to thoughts of the afterlife. Death is something I am no longer afraid of, since I have peered into the belly of the post-world. I understand what is in store for me when I enter the next chapter in my journey. I’m a Phase One candidate, like many others that I pass on a daily basis. Some are similar to me; they have had the knowledge shared with them. The ones I feel sorry for are those yet to know.
They act out their daily lives, planning and setting sights for the future, unaware it will be taken away in a flash. The couples hand in hand, the fathers and mothers jovially swinging their child around, the children chuckling and embracing the love. I am thankful for the lack of love in my life. I had never thought much about it up until I was tagged, but having no family ties allows the process to run quicker.
I haven’t needed to draw out emotional goodbyes that end with a lie. No hugs to offer and no tears to shed. There’s very little I hold on to, and since I turned fifteen all there has been is me, a backpack and a road. I could lie to myself and say that I ran away from a loving home, but there was much more to it than that.
I am not bitter, I take everything in my stride, even my looming demise. I never really thought about my expiry dates until most recently, but in my opinion, eighteen is a bit young to meet your maker. Life frustrated me with the amount of inappropriate deaths that occurred around me. I understood the passing of the older generation, moving on after a life lived full and well. Something I could never comprehend was the immature deaths of newborns and infants. There seemed little need for stress, time, joy and effort of the build up to a newborn child if the life would be taken away soon after.
I do not understand life and I never will. I don’t think the Runners understand it, to be honest. They are the playmakers of the world, setting us up to either fail or succeed, planting obstacles in our path or removing them. So much for that good stroke of luck or fortune. Everything happens for a reason, but only if it fits in with the Powers. The best part around my death is that I will meet the Powers, or to be precise, the stooges that do their bidding. I have a few choice words for them and I will ensure they answer the imperative questions I have noted.
My favourite part of my morning walk is not the sunrise, the sea air or the contrasting beauties of the world. The moment that I cherish the most is when I reach the ruins of a castle that faded centuries before, and is now an outlook towards the sea. The stone wall had been preserved and renovated, with stone steps and handrails leading up to a square with flower pots and three separate benches. My seat is the bench closest to the steps. I like a quick exit and it’s the only one that looks out to the sea and gives a good vantage point of the other two benches.
Every morning at six fifteen a.m, I reach the ruins, take my seat and wait. Around six thirty, a couple in their late eighties or nighties make the haul up the steep steps, take the seat furthest away from me and sit side by side, hand in hand. Their faces light up when communicating, still in love after all the years that I assume they have been together and look out towards the sea, often in a comfortable silence. Twenty minutes later, they leave, hand in hand and just as happy.
It makes my heart skip a beat every single time. It makes me feel alive and realise that with darkness there is also light. I know love is not in my horizon, but just to witness it feels me with belief of something greater.
I allow five minutes for the couple to depart before I follow suit. I walk the same stretch of land with the water splashing at my feet once more. I smile as the heat has increased and the touch of warmth on my skin is welcoming.
I reach the pier, head beneath it to the place I call home and stop at the foot of the tent. I sigh twice, creak my neck to the left and right and stretch. It has seemed like tradition now, bringing luck each time. It’s stupid but I need something to get me through. If I didn’t complete this ritual and found bad news waiting for me I wouldn’t be to forgive myself.
I brace myself as I unzip the tent and wait for the dreaded summons. I take a step back, head bowed and let out a sigh. This one of relief. There is no summons. I have been spared another day. I almost lose my footing from sheer excitement and stabilise myself enough to secure the tent back up. I look out towards the ocean and smile. The day is for the taking.