Slipstream

Dear Emma,

How many years is it since I last saw you?

It was the night of your sister’s birthday, I recall, perhaps eight years ago. You were radiant, enhanced by your distinctive, casual dress, your tee-shirt and shorts, and the shawl you spread across your shoulders as the evening light faded, the moths emerged to flutter restlessly against the porch lights and windows, and we sat on wicker chairs in the dusky silence.

I remember, behind us, someone was playing a sentimental song, an old one – Judith Durham, perhaps? Or Karen Carpenter? One of those, I’m sure, because your sister had a fondness for them, which she would not deny, despite the caprices of the time.

Your sister, Kelly, never felt obliged to follow fashionable trends, did she? She was her own woman, as the saying goes. She still is, no doubt. You were the same. Perhaps that was always our problem. You craved the freedom of the restless, open sea while I was was land-bound, a home-lover, staid, predictable. You cut me loose, to flounder in your slipstream, as you sailed away.

It was good of you to write, to enquire after my health, to ask how I have fared since those distant days, and to suggest we meet. I cannot deny a fleeting longing to see you again, to share memories of what once I was, what once we were; but I cannot see you again.

I cannot see anyone.

I have transformed. I am something you could not bear to see.

You think I exaggerate? I can assure you, I don’t.

 My lips and eyes have grown pencil thin, my stare is cold and malevolent, and my scaly skin is rough to touch. You would be repelled at the sight. My gait and posture have changed too; I walk hunched; my slit-eyes focus closely on the ground before me as I glance left and right, sharply, as if in fear of what I might see. My tongue darts between cold, spikes of teeth, and my throat flickers beneath its green, lizard folds. If you saw me, you would shudder and turn away, or you would bathe my corrupted body in waves of pity. I could not bear that.

Better that you remember me as I was, when the reptile beneath my skin slumbered, and did not stir. Imagine me instead, as if I stood at the stern of a motor-yacht, my eyes drifting across the deck to where you shone like a second sun in a clear, blue sky. 

If we met now, you would stare in horror; you would beg me to explain how this transformation occurred; but how could I tell you that you left me floundering in your wake, as you sailed further and further away, your eyes fixed on the sun, the blue sky, and the far horizon? You never wanted to leave me in the lonely darkness of the cold, desolate sea, but I could not follow you. I did not share your magical visions.

It happened; I can say no more. Nor can I blame you. You followed your nature: I followed mine, and became what I always feared.

Imagine I crawled ashore in a lonely bay, where I could hide my growing deformity from the cold stare of unfeeling eyes. It is a fitting image.

You, who have remained unchanged, and are still the blossom on the wild cherry, still the lamb at play, still the beam of light in an otherwise dark room, could never understand my degradation. Were I weak enough to submit to you request, and to the resonant pleading of my heart, how could I then live with the memory of the distaste and disgust the sight of me would foster?

I can picture now how you would look at me. I shudder to think of it. It cannot be.

You must remember me as I was, just those few short years ago, before your curse fell upon me, and my transformation began; think of me before I was sucked into the undertow and emerged from it, changed forever.

I repeat, Emma, I do not blame you. You were the spirit of the spring, the spray on an ocean wave, the scent of blossom on the air. You were the freshness of the dawn as the mist rose over the grass, and the sky poured brilliance around us from the pure, silver vessel of the clouds. As I look back now, with the cold perspective time alone can grant, I know you could never be fully mine in the way my insecurity demanded. We were different, you and I. You were born to fly free, a distant fleck on my horizon. You were a creature of hope and love. I lived only in your slipstream.

My home on the shore of the wild sea, is closeted in darkness. I cannot bear the light to penetrate, or its warmth to stir me. I am free now to become the creature that was cocooned within me years ago, long before we met. It has emerged and taken over, cell by cell, multiplying within me, until I can no longer recognise who I once was.

My blood has grown cold; reptilian scales have grown over me, my arms are thin, and my claw-like fingers probe the darkness as if food. I hide behind the curtains and peer out through a narrow, reptile-eye at those who may pass by; I see them turn and scan the house to check the windows and doors, curious to glimpse the monster within. I do not let them see me. When people call – the vicar, the doctor, those neighbours who venture over the open moorland and the cliffs, the solitary walker looking for conversation, accommodation or sustenance - my door is barred against them.I have no need of them. I have no need of anyone. I am content to be alone.

No, my dear Emma, you must leave me as I am, and make no further contact. I shall treasure your message. I imagine your arms reaching out to me across the ocean of time; I picture the love in your eyes as, tantalisingly close, your hands try to draw me back to safety; but I cannot see you.

It may surprise you, but I am happy to be as I am. I have no needs, no longings, no desires. I do not feel pain or joy, love or hate. I care for no-one and no-one cares for me. I have no responsibilities. I depend on no-one. I feel nothing.

I am free, Emma, though perhaps not in any way you would understand. I am as free as the birds that fly overhead, feed on the shoreline outside my home, or slumber under the full, moonlit tide. I am as free as the otter, the seal, and the fish.

You were my one true love; I lost you; I will love no more.