TW: talks about blood and self harm
Every time I walk this path my eyes are drawn to the balanced composition of colours and textures, that of which I only ever see once a year, its beautiful. Now that I’m past the comfort of tightly squeezed homes and stilled workshops, I focus to feel the outdoors with all my senses, worried I’ll be swallowed whole. The familiar wall of boulder I approach is normally quite comforting. The large stones were put in many years ago, before I was thought of. The stones were placed to support a long dock, built before anyone I know would have been thought of. A dock that my family has used to feed themselves for generations. These rocks support creaking beams, lessen the tugging on ropes and the rocking of vessels as they rest. In the Old House, where I should be still, there are sienna hazed photographs where the dock is open to every motion the sea carried its way. This area now feels so different, still behind modern, but more developed than soggy’d pegs holding up a few boards. A lanky, ebony light pole casts a deep orange glow onto the platform. Although the lamp sits high enough to loom above anyone around, the orange doesn’t stretch to every board. It hands me a spotlight half way along the platform, in doing so, sending the rest of the area in contrasted dark. Maybe it’s just this change in light, but, right now the boulders feel like more than stone. As if the kittens that skurry and squeeze betwixed them during day have grown into stalking lions, just behind a shadow. The howls from open ocean crash onto the artificial rock face, each gust creates a soundscape that puts in my mind the song of bundles of flutes caught in a downburst. With sight eased by sun, I chose not to reach my gaze out to the left. Towards the tree covered hills, across the beach, holds the road out of town, quite beautiful. But I’m scared of the dark, and I know there’s life in the trees.
Worried I might shit myself if I allow the fear to overtake me, I keep my feet moving at a steady but slowed pace. A large steel box sits beside the lightpole, always. The tin lid sits at about my chest. Turned brown by time, the electrical box cast a shadow on a large crack in the terrain, its where the land changes from concrete to deck boards. When I passed under the stalkingly tall amber lamp, my eyes fail me for a moment while they realize the world in twilight. I‘m still not 100 sure but, when I was blind I could have sworn I heard something fall into the water right below me but I hadn‘t lost anything. There’s a constant and comforting brush of air moving across my cheeks and ears, it reminds me of just how long it had been since I went outdoors for reasons other than getting from point A to point B. The air is warm, but I feel that autumn is around the corner. The whisps which tickle the loose sleeves of my hoodie start to become more agitated as I walk, losing the full power of the boulder’s looming over my right shoulder. I reach the last deckboard, decide I’ll cast out from the left corner of the docks edge. Not only is it my preffered spot, but from the Street, I would be invisible behind the “lost street light”’s bulb. I let loose the bucket in my hand. It, and my brother’s tackle box plop down onto the wood. I dont know why but, In that moment I expected the clang of my tools to yell an echo back at me. It never came though, the sea swallows it whole.
I give slack to my line and release the hook from my guide, my left hand holds tight to the rod’s pine handle. I peak over in the direction I came from, up the very weathered road, curved by chosen paths, lined with quiet, old homes. The Old-House isn’t quite in my site, farther up the way than I can see now. I can only hope my family hadn’t woken up during my secret escape to the water. If my mother or father had heard me leave, there’s no way I could hide or sneak back in. I could try to scale the rock wall to hide, which sounds terrifying. Then, I can treck through the thick woods untill I pass the length of the village. No fucking way, if I’m caught, I’m caught. I accept my potential fate and turn back to the task, trying to remind myself that constantly checking over my shoulders will only make my worry worse.
If I were to try and step off the edge of the platform at any point I’d be “stopped” by a foot high ledge made of wood, stain green as many docks are, dont ask me why. The meeting of these perpendicular ledges create a line about the thickness of a pencil, it marks the direction I cast out. In the dark I can’t make out the large stones hidden just beneath the water accompanying the boulders on my right, and I wouldn’t dare risk hitting one of the ships tied up along the long warfs edge. when I hear the almost silent plop of my hook in the water, I hault for a brief while so my reel can let line loose. it spins indecicively, not at a constant pace, slower than faster, then still, and back again. When I think the hook deep enough, I snap my bail back, and put the edge of the pole to my hip. I expect I’ll be bored a while. The time to catch biting fish wont come for another few hours, when the sun starts dimming the stars, and my family begins waking. Even so, I’m not ready to leave here without fishing, even if it’s just me and a few snagged seaweed all night. Maybe if my Father had given me an actual reason he doesn’t want me fishing, I’d listen.
”Because I said so!” He snapped. Back at the house, just after we finished bringing in our bags, he has just gotten a call. He talked for a while with, who I can only assume was someone near by, maybe a cousin or a family from the town fifteen minutes down the road. He spoke with my mother while I fought my older brother upstairs, trying to throw my sheets and pillows on the larger bed while he pinned me to the ground and threaded to fart. He then allied us down with the kind of intensity that accompanied anger. Dad then sat me, my brother, and my already frazzled mother down, and told us we won’t be going in the wate this trip. My brother and I began splurging out questions and complaints that overlapped into the perfect teenage whine symphony. Dad quickly became fed up with the sound. “These is how it is! Or we an all leave right now..” He threatened, then looked at me for a response, I think he was hoping I would continue my whining, but I understood his seriousness. When my brother and I gave a half assed “fine”, Dad didn‘t look relieved. Him and my mother have the weirdest rules for our house. Next month for example, when I turn 13, they’re letting me have my friend’s over for a sleep over. But only if I non of my friends go to the movie theatre that day before they come over. Something to do with her obsessive fear of germs.
My mind wonders as I reel and jig line rhythmically. I’ve been trying to push out the events of yesterday with little success. The anger of being told to stay away from the sea mixed with my confusion, and my fear, it‘s got me on edge. I regret my boldness to assume the man would exaggerate when he said Aunt Ella was sick. I regret my preteen ego, thinking he must feel like I’m too childish to see someone who’s sick. Dand didn’t speak to me once. From the moment we walked into the sterile building, to the moment we left. When he saw us walking up toward him, he gave me an anxious look, not directly to me as if communicating something, more at my presence, like I reminded him of something worrysome he hadn’t thought of for a while. Frankly, Dand spoke about his wife like she were already dead, although I could only hear him a little. I thought of my grandmother back home, small, forgetful, confsued, but whitty and kind, even when she was convincing you her deceased mother just come out of the bathroom and talked with her. My parents told me she was sick once they couldn’t hide it any more, my brother knew her longer, he knew something was wrong. They told she’ll just forget things slowly, might claim she saw things occasionally, but to not be sad. They told me that she can remember how she feels, so even if she forgets my face, she’ll still know she loved me. Just like her sister, Aunt Ella doesn’t deserve to be hidden away just because she forget things. I didn’t care if she didn’t know me anymore, I wanted to hold her hand again, run my fingers across the back of them and watch her skin wrinkle. I’ll tell her my name again, tell her I’ma. Friend, and remind her that she’s going to be okay. Maybe she’s forgetful today but, that also means she might be scared. Even with my ducks in a row, I wouldn’t want to wake up in a faux home that smells like scrubbed skin. My parents stepped away from me without haste when we arrived, in a world of their own with Uncle Dand, sadness in their posture. I was stood infront of a hall perpendicular to the one they chatted in, where I watched Dand comm from as we walked up to him initially. I had gotten the hint that this was a “kids should be seen and not heard” and “go entertain yourself while adults talk” moment. I decided that since my brother decided to stay at the old house and play the video games be brought from home, I would explore to see if I could say a quick hey to my family member. With good intentions, I crept down the hall, peaking through open doorways and trying to seem like I belong there. Before we arrived I was told we wouldn’t be seeing my great aunt, but she still had to be here somewhere. I poke my head into the doors lining the left of the hall. empty, empty, empty, empty,EMPTY. Each room I pass is perfectly set up and still. The rooms must have been decorated by some alien who’s only heard stories about homes. The hall was quiet and dead, The end of the wall connect to another, There’s chatting, laughing and beeping farther away. Each of my steps are audible, but sound is pushed to the back of my senses, the forefront of my mind is on the mix of anxiety and excitement to see Aunt Ella. My gate was swift as I walked up to the next doorway, expecting the same nooone-ness. I didn’t slow as I aproached the door, head turning so I could peak at the pressed white bedding as I passed. just as I turned my head I jumped through my skin, terrified by a boom in my ears. A loud voice came from inside the room. “I need you now!” it said. Before I could think, an eblowy forearm smacked into the right side of my body. two nurses pushed past me, one older female, hair pinned back tightly, and a male following right behind her, giant stature, almost comical compared to the petit woman he’s running after. I say outloud a quiet sorry, they are clearly in a rush. I steady myself, embarrassed that I got in the way of these people while they try to work. I chose to take a quick passing glance at whatevers theywere running to, probably a new nurse who made a mistake and is freaking out, the voice sounded pretty young. When my eyes meet the inside of that room I felt my heart crash into my diafram. Terror overtook me and my ears fill with a high ringing I know wasn’t really there. The next few moments are slowed down in my memory, I was told it’s a thing that the brain does when it thinks it’s in danger.
The room wasn’t empty. My Great Aunt’s thin, silky hands were outstretched, flexing angrily below the grasp of three nurses, the large man is now on one side of her, using a thick white towel to help him press my aunt’s limb to the bed, two women worked on her other side with the bad’s blanket, they looked as if they were struggling to hold her down, but that couldn’t be possible. the muscles in Aunt Ella’s legs were wild. her calves and tendons wriggled while she strained and kicked. She worked despereatley to push her torso high into the air, then throw her feet outward so that her body would slam back onto the bed. Each time she crashed down I cringed, was sure the bed would collapse. As she thrashed, she stepped on her fragile paper gown and it gave way, the only thing clothing her. Between the papery, blue scraps, Aunt Ella’s body glissenned. She was covered in sweat, the parts of her skin untanned by the sun were decorated by pink hues and dark viens. Mom has a vericose vein on her leg, it was kind of like that, but it entangled her. I didnt feel alive while I watched her, the only senses I had were sight and sound. When she lost use of her arms a shriek bellowed out of her in frustration. It sounded like an old cat trying to escape a blender. the only glimpse I got of her face was when she paused her complusive self harm to spit at the hospice staff. thick, vermilion fluid from her mouth smacked the two nurses on her right, the older one was holding down an arm while she kicked at the scraped metal on the tile with her shoes. The other nurse was trying to inject her with something. The spit from my Aunt’s mouth sprayed like a spit take with maple syrup, the spray landed all over the face of the girl trying to give her new medicine, all over the inside of the young woman’s shouting mouth. the young girl froze solid, as tho a glass of ice water had been thrown down her back. Aunt Ella twisted up her pared features into a crimson smile, eyes peering into the woman’s mouth. Hideous laughter crawled out of her then, pitch changing as she bend her back up into an arch again. The floor and bed beneath her wouldn’t have noticed the spray, already slathered with reds, blacks, and browns. “Get out of here!” The loud voice of the male nurse snapped me back to reality, remembering that I have a body attached to my mind. My eyes snapped to his sturn expression, Eye’s intense and mouth shouting behind a white mask. I just ran away.
SNAP. I close the bail again. noone but the wind to wipe my tear away. I still dont understand what I saw. Why were they holding her so meanly? In my life I’ve only ever seen her move as fast as a square marble, she must have been using all the energy in her body to scratch and scream like that, I don’t know if I can believe it was really her. Why the fuck does that hospital put zippers on a bed canopy? seems like a tripping hazard. I catch my arms coming toward me, a small flash of silver in my view. with a side step to dodge the two inch mackrel hook flying at my face. I had been reeling much faster than I thought I was. I peered out to the blackened space before me, and took a deep breathe. Salted air filled my lungs. I cast my line, heat radiating from my hands, pink from the tense grip I had on the rod. I feel exposed, scared of the nothing, potential for everything. the ropes which tie rocking vessels are audible as they strain against the waves. The ocean makes clear its size, no longer drowned out by motors and chatter. The night is cool and clear, but the winds doesn’t rest. One thing about this great fishing spot a the edge of the dock is, the stone pile doesn’t block the brunt of the westerlies, or the song scream of waves from infront of me to the horizons. another peak behind me nothing but concrete and stone, again. I scan the town’s houses for any change, any signs that someone’s awake to detect me. About thirty more minutes go by where all I do is go back and forth between thinking about the shadow behind me, and thinking about whether or not my family is sleep. All the while I go through motions of a fisher, and cringe at the booms of wind that crash into my ears. finally, as I put a booted foot up onto the ledge in defeat, do I get a sign that all this stress may have been worth it. Something tugs lightly on my line. With a jolt I jig my rod up, hoping to hook the lips of whatever fish has notice my decoy minnow. The feeling of excitement about a catch mixed intensly with the already present fear that had been brewing energizes my body. Stepping back from the edge, taking a quick glance behind me, just incase the Lions in shadow have decided to pounce. I hold the rod outward so that I dont get a smack when the sea lets go of my catch. I tighten my core and use the rod grip to push the butt into my hip hinge. My right hand springs to life, spinning the handle with help from my bicepts. After the first few turns of the handle I slow, then pause. The line is coming in easy, how could I have lost the fish that fast? when you’ve got a hook in a fish you can feel it the you in every direction while it tries to swim away, I thought I would have felt it let go if it had gotten free. The almost invisible line form my rod points straight down into the water, parralell to the wharf’s fondation. Then, the line from the water to my hand becomes curled, Loose. jigginh my reel upward from my hip I feel nothing, no resistance. fuck.
I let out a defeated laugh. All that sneaking just to lose a hook, my brother’s definetly going to kill me, and make a spectacle of it so my parents stay in the loop. disappointed, and anxious now about how I’ll hide my mistake, I decide to finish for the night. I’ll tie on another hook and hope noone notices the change in Bobo’s tackle box? Atleast until we’re home and I could blame it on his bad packing. I’m going to be so much more joyed once I’m in a house, or back in my creaky bed. I spin the loose line back up slowly, trying to keep the right tension. A gust of wind assaults my ears, scraping against my ears, overwhelming me, I can feel my heartbeat in my chest, I finish reeling in as fast as I can. Curiously, a moment later my rod dipped down at the end. I must have caught the sea floor. An audible “wait.” Comes out my mouth. How do I have something caught on a line with no hook?. Confused, I take a precausinary step back, just incase the line has got something on the end that ones back at me. Happy to hopwfully reveal a hook still attached to my rod, I pull on the grip and spring my catch into the air above the waves, Tilting the rod towards the north start in order to have my catch fall over the ledge and into the cocrete. Before it hits the ground I hault my lowering catch, its wiggling. Oblong and silver, not large enough to legally keep, but big enough to make a meal out of. I cheer loudly, scaring myself with my own volume. Now I can say that I got to fish while I was home this year, even though I wont be telling anyone, I’ll know. In order to remove the hook I put a firm hand on the fish across its gills. My hands dont reach all the way around so I settle with my palm pressing against my fishing, fish against the woos. The sun is still settled far below the horizon, I need to work carefully to make sure I don’t stab myself. I decide that, if I can get this guy home and into the freezer before anyone wakes up, I should be able to cook it with breakfast this morning. It’d be a win all around, I eat my catch, and I’ll never get caught. With that decisions made I decide to use the no mercy method to free the fish from the hook, since I’ll be killing and eating it. Im stradling the wooden dock, and pressing the seizing fish against it. Normally I wouldn’t be so intimate with the gross ground, but at this point I‘m almost completely blind and handling some spikes. With a stretch I reach my brother’s tackle box and retreave his knife. Beautiful, sharpened blade with a white leather sheith and a metal handle to match. Thin and long, with a point perfect for slicng just under the gils. I take off the sheith and place the knife against my leg. Another gasp of wind flushes my senses, snatching up calm, breathable air, and shouting through my head. The only way I can take a good breathe is by tucking my face into my arm. I lean down close to ground, mouth against my pressing forearm. My face is about eight inches away from my catch at this point. when I dropped my rod and grabbed my fish, I turned by body towards the other end of the dock, hoping the street lamp would save me from sticking a hook through my hand. With a moment up close with the creature, and the little bit of glow from the lamp down the way, I’m able to study the thing I have my hands on. The 12 inch mackerel is still flopping against my weight, I can feel the seizing muscles that make up thee creature exahausting themselves in an attempt to keep the creature alive, trying to escape my grip. Becasue of its vitious movement and the lack of light, I hadnt noticed a bend in its spine. Less of the bend, more of a crack, as if the fish had been snapped in half, the angle of it back obtuse, but not far off a 90 degree angle. Its scales poke and point painfully as it’s skin attempts to conform to the skeleton’s twisted state. It looks paintful. The Fish has unanurally large eyes, although it looks plently grown the eyes are protortionate to a young fish, probably another birth defect, large eyes, milky iris. The dark create an illustion that the pupils are focusing in on my features, staring right into my eyes. I release a held breathe and put a hand back on the hook, tight to the mouth of the minnow where the sharp end stick into my breakfast. A very audible rip cups my ears as I pull the hook straight away from where it is attached, sure that I wont be sticking myself with it’s points. The fish jerks again and I let out a loud “ouch!” throwing the creature and my hook away from me, I grab my onto my hands. There is a few seconds where I’m too confused to to process what happened. If I were to feel any pain it would be because a hook caught my finger, but the pain I felt was Surprise, a crushing feeling, like having my hand stuck in a slammed dresser drawer. I peak through my palm and I wash blood drip from my digits striight onto my thighs. too much blood to have come from the fish. It’s me, the blood is coming from me. There’s a deep cut the spread from my ring to poiner finger. I reach in my back pocket for a my mittens, anything to stop the stream of blood from below my nuckles. Another gust of wind reminds me that I’m alive. I clench my fist but inhail sharply as I feel another paint. I turn my hand over to reveal almost identical holes on the other side of my fingers. My whole body goes hot, a wash on warmth caused by my addreniline, then another wave of anxiety. how am I going to eplain this? grip my light brown mitten, now ruined, and dig around the tackle box for tape. The only thing I might be able to use as gauze. I use my right hand and my teeth to wrap my hand tightly. I fill my ears with reasurrance and paniced comments. I’ll have no way of hiding this on the seven hour drive. While my hand burns and stings, I start to pack up the tackle box, which I reach the sliver minnow hook against the wood I Shift my focus. Why am I bleeding? how can I hurt? The jaw of the fish is mostly still attached to the hook, greys and translucent gums swing quickly as I lift my minnow. All but one half of the bottom jaw missing. My eye’s follow the line from my hook to the rod tip. Just behind the first guide lay my catch. I blink harshly, a few times, trying to get out the sleep in my eyes which cause me to see a human smile flattened against the wood. I take a lunging step and prop myself just infront of the creature. It’s eyes still bulbose, now flipped on its other side, the fish faces away from me. Still, it’s enormouse eyes look like they are straining to meet my gaze. The fish was demented, it was crushed and mangled so that the surface of it’s skin could accommodate a large growth along of side of it’s body. from it’s jaw to it’s side fin, scales are replaces with dark, smooth skin. The side fin pokes out father down on the body than it should, almost invisible behind a large set of human lips and teeth. human fucking lips and teeth on this fish. I get another wave of feeling wash over me. Not heat, or anxiety, it’s pure fear. Fearing the accuracy of a full set of human teeth. The mouth is agape, not neutrally, its still pressed into a large, blood stained smile. The unwavering smile with enough room between it’s teeth to fit my bloody fingers.
I fall on to ass. staring down at the thing infront of me, no longer afraid of the dark, or the shadows, or my family. What the fuck is that thing? I stare at the human lips, a tongue that fits impossibly in the scaled vessel flicks outward. It’s smiled pink toungue licks its own lips, like a shot from a film where the mysterious female lead is trying to seduce to main character. The tongue shot far out of its mouth right towards me. The appendage reached five or six inches outward, far farther than a tongue should, pointed directly at me like a Vizsla. The wind claws at the inside of my hung open jaw, sweeping up the moisture in my mouth. The creature was as still as a statue, save for the slow rise and fall of the mid beast’s midsectIon, It was breathing. The sting pain from my fingers take me out of the staring contest with these blown up marshmallow eyes. I pull myself up and the pointing tongue follows me. Once I’m stood the thing reaching for me changed its posture. It moved back at forth, beckoning me to it. I grab all my tools and throw then into my bucket, as I do so I hear a loud creeeaaaakk from a far. The house closest to me, about half a kilometer, they’ve got a dog and they’re old so. The let it out whenever it wants. The sky has started to lighten, I have to get back in bed and take care of my hand. I look back to the thing on the ground and my stomach lurches. The thing moves with impossible swiftness, the tongue beckons be back and forth at the of a swimming tail. My food crashed down onto the creature. It take me three attempts to stop the fucking thing from moving. I run as fast as I can away from it, as I do I look back to see the kitten‘s who had been watching me inspecting the squashed mess, Hissing and screaming at it. When I get back to the house I put my stuff down lightly on the deck. Out of breathe, I try to steady my heartbeat as I try to remember exactly how the item’s sat a few hours earlier. The morning air is still up here, hidden by street. I can’t clearly hear the snoring of my mother within the small home.
After I creep into my bed, along with a first aid kit and a pack of baby whipes, I start to clean myself up and think of excuses for my injuries. I think of ways to smooth things over, things I can say to my parents to put them in a better mood, or distract them. My mom keeps talking about putting me in therapy, says that I’m too sad and moody. Maybe I’ll tell her I want to go. I could probably ask her all about Aunt Ella and Nanny’s condition. She can explain to me what the Alzheimer’s really does to ur brain, what kind of stuff to expect. I’ll tell her about Aunt Ella, maybe she can give me some signs to look out for when I’m with Nanny, and if there’s any clue as to when she’ll get those veins, or if there’s a way to teach Aunt Ella not to eat her forks and knives.
The end for now!
Never done this b4 please critique it!
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