we only said goodbye with words

05 February 2008

when i went down to the devil's water (a short story)

a short story
--
"the devil's water"

The tide seemed to dance back and forth in rhythm with my heartbeat. The sun set lower and lower with every blink of my eyes. I could hear nothing but the rush of the sea on the sand and the calm roll of waves far beyond. I shielded my eyes by putting my hand flat along my brow line and stared out as far as I could see, straight deep into the purple-orange glow of the horizon. I don't know what I was expecting to see. A sign pointing the other way, perhaps? But I saw only the traces of the setting sun in veins across the sky. The light was like blood, in a way. Aside from the sand beneath my feet, the rush of the occasional wave, and the chill of the ocean breeze blowing the hair out of my face, I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing, I listened for that familiar voice in my head, the voice that would process my thoughts as they occurred, the voice that would remind me what I'm doing, standing at the edge of the shore, looking out wistfully into the depths of the ocean. But I heard nothing. Only the empty echo of a thousand natural arrows of the sun fleeing beyond the horizon in confluence with the thin blood in my veins, pumped through my body by my heart. I could smell nothing save the salt brought by the breeze. Not even the clean floral waft of her coal-black hair.

I'm going down to the devil's water.

Nothing.

And yet everything seemed in perfect order. I can't think of how to explain it. But I felt like if I moved even an inch forward towards the dark, welcoming waves that I would disturb the entire universe. I closed my eyes and saw everything I've ever seen, heard everything I've ever heard, replayed before me. From my earliest memory to my most recent: watching from inside a playpen as my parents walked out the back door, my grandmother left to watch over me. I heard their voices promising immediate return. I saw their loving faces. I heard the echoes of infantile thoughts in my head trying to rationalize what I was seeing and hearing. I remember the clock ringing seven times and my grandmother murmuring a soothing song to me in a foreign tongue; then, following a sweeping montage, all was still; the camera steadied, the volume dropped; the silence was audible as her face emptied and turned; her beautiful, slender figure followed by her shoulder-length black hair walked out the door, and I was left with no one but myself. I heard the door click shut, her footsteps waking down the concrete steps outside my house. Somewhere a clock rang eleven times. It was raining. And then it was black. I do not know when that happened. I couldn't remember anything in between; my only consciousness after that was the streaming present of the beach, the sea, and the depths, summoning me with siren-like cries of rolling water. It was as if I had shut down entirely the moment she left, opening my eyes in front of the open, hungry sea. My breath echoed unnaturally loud, both within me and in conjunction with the sound of the lapping waves. I couldn't move.

I took a step forward anyway. I heard the sand crunch beneath my feet. I took another step and heard the sand crunch again. It echoed like my breath. A wave came crashing on the shore and the water rushed over my bare feet. It was the middle of December, yet my skin felt indifferent to the water. I couldn't feel the cold at all.

Why does the night sound so seductive? I suddenly became painfully aware of the fact that the tips of my fingers were freezing. I didn't think I'd need gloves. That seemed pointless to me. But there I was standing on the shore, staring into the deep expansive graveyard sea, wishing I had a pair of goddamn gloves. I know exactly which ones, too. They are red wool gloves with black horizontal stripes. There is a hole in the third finger on the left hand. I still don't know how it got there.

The depth of the silence of the night intrigued me like the trap of a beautiful woman's eyes. I couldn't hear the intrinsically familiar whir of a machine; there probably wasn't one for miles. A large black wave with a thick white foam crashed onto the shore, and I heard things. I heard the crash of the wave as it broke on the sand. I heard the wind of the night. I heard the dark, deep silence, like a diamond. I listened. I heard the breath of my flesh as it summoned cold from the air. Goddamnit. I heard the gods laughing in Valhalla, their voices echoing in the chambers of my mind.

I just said what I should have said a long time ago, anyway. I took her hand and held her face but like the sun at dusk she just turned away.

Look at the ocean. My god, look at the ocean.

Crisp. I breathed.

I tried not to exhale. I almost didn't.

But I needed to breathe again. Didn't I?

In that moment, I missed her. Goddamnit. My kingdom for the feel of her small hands in mine, her head on my shoulder, her breath in my ear, her body moving with mine.

I went down to the devil's water.

I took several steps forward. My pockets were so heavy.

I continued until I was waist-deep in ocean water. I thought I wouldn't feel anything, but I was cold. I was so fucking cold.
I stopped moving for a moment and let my salt water mingle with the ocean. I wiped my face. I favored ocean water dripping down my cheeks than my own pathetic liquids.

But why shouldn't I?

I kept walking despite the difficulty. I could barely move my body for all the gravity around me. But I kept walking.

I really thought I wouldn't feel a goddamn thing.

I hadn't in so long.

But I did. I felt the cold and I felt the weight and I felt the water churning around me and the sand beneath me. I felt all of these so consciously. I was so aware.

I think so, anyway.

The night grew darker and the darkness grew deeper as I waded further and further into the devil's water.

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