Today, At The Beach

So I’m bleeding to death with what must be a broken leg, almost certainly no ribs left in one piece, and bits of tooth swimming around the various fluids I keep spitting and dribbling out of my mouth. That’s not even mentioning the unholy shitstorm of ruptures, splits and failings that must be going on inside.

           It hurts.

And what am I thinking? What bright shining light of wisdom and redemption is illuminating my sprawling mess of a thought process? Why didn’t I just admit that I liked Katy Palmer when she told me how she felt after PE class in year 9? I mean, holy what the fuck, right? Would my life have been significantly better if Katy fucking Palmer and her weirdly sexy androgynous haircut had been a bigger part of it? Would my path have steered me neatly around colossal errors of judgement like the one I currently reside in, for however much longer?

I mean, it’s not like I’ve even thought about her for a good 20 years. But there she is again, stepping shyly towards me, with a kind of side-step and a tilted head which more or less brushes my shoulder. Then she looks up, smiles, looks away, and I’m thinking to myself; holy shit! I like this girl! and, you know, my body’s agreeing with me all over.

What the hell all this has to do with the here and now and the current predicament is somewhat beyond me. But if you think I’m taking my imminent demise lightly or stoically or any other kind of vaguely admirable ly, you’re seriously fucking mistaken. Make no mistake about it. I. Do. Not. Want. To. Die. Not just now. Not just here. I mean at all. I do not want to die. Period. Death is, I would argue rather reasonably, my biggest fear in this life, and I will do anything to avoid it. Quite what anything could possibly entail right now is seriously beyond me considering I can’t even get out of these goddam handcuffs.   

I think I must have passed out.

           I have no idea how long for. But I wake up, which means I’m still alive. If I’m still alive, then there’s hope.

I hear noises, muffled by the sound of my own breathing, and out of my one open eye I see a leg nearby.

Through a hole in the wooden wall, that’s level with my one eye that can still open, it pads past, and then back. Each time, it gets closer. It is and slim and furry. I try to stop the hole from spinning by closing my eye and opening it again. I know it’s not a centaur. There are no centaurs. I am not a child. I know what it is. It is one of those things. A dog.

Goddam, my mind is clouding. I have to keep it sharp. I try to focus. To listen hard and hear what is happening outside. The voices are people, that much is for sure. They must be walking their dog. Maybe dogs. How can I make a noise?

I try to shake my leg, to kick something, but nothing useful happens. There doesn’t seem to be anything in reach. I feel my good, though good is perhaps not the right word here, leg flopping hopelessly like a landed fish.

I had a dog, way back when. That is, I didn’t, but my grandparents did when I had to live with them. It was a big, old and smelly golden retriever called… something… where has the name gone? I know that it had a name. Everything has a name.

Later. Long after the dog walkers have walked their dog and left me here, I see an ant. Just one. A little black ant in the sand. I can remember stories and movies and TV shows. Prisoners always manage to train a bird or a mouse or a rat. They befriend it and they teach it and it does things to help them. Maybe. Maybe I can train this ant. Maybe it can get me help. I hiss at it to come over to me. I want to tell it I’ll give it sugar. A mountain of sugar. So much sugar it will take a day to climb it. If it will just go and get me help.

I don’t want to cry. My body rattles and the pain ricochets around me. And I need the liquid. I need to keep it. I need it all. If I could just get some water. Throw it over myself, into myself, swallow it down.

At the local pool with mum, after dad had left and I was having problems at school. She was a weak swimmer and I would laugh at her and tease her because I took to it so naturally. I wanted to join the navy. I thought I could work on boats and swim all the time and that I’d enjoy my life.

When I was discharged, she was there to meet me. She took me back into her home and told me that she believed me. Gerry never believed me. He resented me being there, I could tell, though he always denied it. That car was the least he owed me. But if I could just see her again. Just once.

The pain is starting to lessen. It’s what I’ve been praying for, but now I’m not so sure. I can’t feel my toes. Not even in the leg that worked. I send messages to my fingers, but something is scrambled. Something is off. I can’t open my mouth anymore. It’s like I’ve been eating toffee.

Oh my god, I loved toffee. I would grab all of the toffee chocolates from the tin and cram two, three, four in my mouth at once, chewing them until my mouth, my whole face, was just a mass of masticating brown gumminess and noise. “momm-momm-mommm,” and dribbling down my chin in sticky little rivulets of glistening golden liquid sugar.

This morning when I woke up, I had a plan. It was a good plan. I made it myself. I couldn’t have been so wrong. If I could just get myself found. Get to a hospital. I could make things right. I know this.

If I hadn’t… But I did… But if I hadn’t…

I try to retrace my steps, but as I form each one it blows away like piles of sand on the beach, and that is all I see now. Sand. It stretches out before me like a dessert. Forever.

           I learned about this at school. It is rocks worn down over years, over millennia. Each grain is time shaped to its ultimate form. It is the history of the world in microcosm. It is all of experience ground down to the root.

           Forever.

I don’t deserve this.