High Tide by Eliza Fairley

The ending

The wind is strongest here. He stands on a precipice, one of many along this coastline. It’s begging him to swim, to sink, to carry his body into the grey of the sea and the sky. It’s a love lingering, cling-ing to existence and clutching at empty space. His fingers reach and grab at the salt-filled air, gaseous and boisterous. The wind fills his lungs till they’re bursting, choking on the pain of a life lost to the closeness of where he is and where he began and the vastness of where he could’ve gone. He is float-ing in between cliff, water, and atmosphere. Then he is gone. Forever ago and today. Like ever-dampening sands and ever-drying coastal winds.

The moment before

Salted crystals embed in his lungs. A beach shed will do for the panic to set in. He stares down at bloody hands in the dim light of a rising sun. He waits for his stomach to stop turning, but it drops deep and harsh, making him feel like a child again. The knife won’t fall from his hands, fate sealing it to him and all he is despite promise after promise that he was going to be different. All this chaos for the sake of pride and friends that now won’t answer as he rings and rings. He doesn’t even know the man’s name, just how it felt as he lunged. His throat convulses, but his eyes are too dry to cry as they used to. He pictures her in their bed before looking out the dusty window towards the coastline. He won’t call now, he’s decided that.

The life lived

A town by the sea, in a house near the centre. He’s proud of the gargling radiators and spluttering lights. He feels at home in the empty glasses and day-old crisping plates. In the garden, there are two plastic deck chairs decorated by the seasons before. Snails travel along ragged grey walls and the sky above is wider than the Earth. A tavern on one side and a family on the other. Laughter and chatter, crying and fighting, all hugging the sitting room with a two-seat worn sofa. He was born here, and she was meant to be just passing through, but they found a home. A town by the sea, in a house near the centre.

The beginning

A big boy in a small town. He watches his dad bend from the baton ricocheting against the backs of his knees. He cries just like his mam as his dad is taken, while the men say it’s all for the best. He grips her legs as the metal hugs his dad’s wrists. His stomach falls into the ground, burying alongside his beliefs that there can be another way for him, that this life might be kind. The police leave the door open. A cold sea breeze dries his cheeks and freezes the moment, preserving the anger for later.

Eliza Fairley is originally from London and resides in Northumberland. She works in prisons running rehabilitative programmes, and spends her free time writing or swimming in the North Sea.

Photo by Andrew Bone on flickr

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