Supping On The Edge Of The World

My mother once told me that every truth in the universe could be found in her locket. Heart-shaped, a single ruby at its tarnished centre – nothing more than a cheap trinket. But her eyes were so filled with love when she told me, that for a brief moment, I dared to believe her. I have carried that love with me ever since.

Years later, I tore that same locket from her withered neck. She wasn’t dead. Oh no, not quite. Not as she wished she was. Not as I wished she was. The first sign had been the ice entering her eyes, blue flooding the ordinary gold until the gaze I knew so well had vanished forever. Next, she seemed to shrink in on herself, skin shrivelling, leathery flaps where fat had been, before her skin lost all colour, fading to the same pale blue as her eyes. That was when I knew she was gone. Like sand flowing through an hourglass, I watched her wilt, a flower too kind for this world.

That was when I took the locket. Before her gnarled hands could try to resist me, before she was possessed by whatever demon overtook the fallen and damned.

I began to wish death on her. Death was a kindness, truly.

A kindness I was too cowardly to inflict.

I had watched many fall to the Affliction. So many, their names blend into oblivion behind me. Even my own lies forgotten in the ruins. The disease had crept into the news, a mysterious illness to be laughed at. Next, many died. In the end, it was revealed that the dead were not dead, but simply other. Pulseless, brainless, cruel and filled with fight. Panic ensued. Buildings fell as the bombs fell, and the guns filled the air with the crackle of war. And now I walk in the rubble left behind after civilisations fell.

It has been a month since my mother left me, dragged away by the Affliction. The locket weighs heavier with every step, but I promised her I would make it, that I would see it through. I promised her I would find the place where the sun meets the sea, and the world is truly beautiful once more. The place we both dreamed of.

A sour dream, dreamt for the dead.

Surviving on stale biscuits and canned meals, I meet few others. They always run, too afraid that I was also Afflicted. I understand it. I would be afraid, too, if I hadn’t already given up to the world. For what is fear when death seems kind?

Seventeen days since I had last spoken. There is no one to talk to in this barren, desolate landscape. Sometimes my jaw works silently, conversing with invisible companions accompanying me on this strange journey. But sand runs into sand runs into rubble, and past the rubble, there lies more sand. Up ahead, dawn grows. And I am alone in welcoming it. Pale bluish hues on a ravaged horizon.

At my feet, the world falls away.

Below, waves stir with the ever present tide, smashing against stoic cliffs as they had done for all time, and would do until eternity decayed. In the far distance, dawn blossoms, sunlight slipping free as the first corner of sun emerges.

I sink to the floor, belongings falling to the brittle grass at the very edge of the precipice, which bend in the light breeze. Finally, salt spray meets my nose, bitter and sublime. Like tasting the future I have lost to Fate. Like tasting life.

A murmuration, remote and faraway, ghosts above the waves, weaving joyfully through the shimmering air, and I know, not that I have ever been one for belief, that my mother’s soul is carried within them. Shivers trickle like chill night down my spine as I realise – we both made it. Peace, at last. So I bathe in a new sunrise, and greet the new day.

I do what I have done for the last month, and sit there, imagining my mother sits beside me, almost solid, sculpted from memory. I take from my bag the rations I carry, this time a can of mystery food, the label ripped off I know not how. That is its past. I struggle enough recalling my own. I tug the ring pull and the metal whimpers, revealing its measly contents. Tomato soup.

Gulping it down, still cold and unstirred, I stop half way, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand before passing it to my mother. I set it before her, in front of where my maddening brain sees her. I can almost glimpse her fingers, as I knew them before, lift the can to her lips. Pouring the contents down. She places it carefully amongst the bracken, the exact place I put it. Memory never served me right. For every sense tells me she sits beside me. Even though I know it can not be so, for I left her miles back, in a tumbled down hut, rasping and broken.

But I smile to my right, closing my eyes so I cannot see the lie, and tell her that we made it. Supping on the edge of the world.

Somewhere behind me, I hear feet crunch. I keep my eyes fix on the ocean, on that dreamy horizon, on my peace. Breathing, harsh and rapid, hisses from somewhere above me. I chew my last mouthful. I take a final deep breath of morning air.

Kind, papery arms enclose me in a final, glorious embrace.

I reach for my neck where my mother’s locket lies, sizzling in the sun, ignoring the strange limbs. Fumbling with the clasp with all the urgency of one who is dying, I manage to prize it open. I finally know the truth. I finally know every truth there is to know. That is what my mother told me.

And I smile.

Smile as I clasp those papery, blue hands, and tumble into the thrashing swell.