Into the Darkness

Off in the distance a lone seagull squawks against the silence. Not even the sand crunching under my feet breaks the feeling that I’m walking toward a precipice that I can not cross. Will I fall into the darkness or conversely, will it fall into me?

Beside me walks a giant of a man who huffs under his weight. He seems not to notice how unearthly quiet it is or how not even 200 feet ahead of us the darkness seems to shroud the beach in a deep void. He labors under the opinion that I’m going to let him go free though he has been accused of unspeakable crimes against children. A person I never met in jail sends people like this man to me. I have never met the person, I don’t know how he gets the prisoners out of the prison. It is not for me to know. He was told that a mere $15,000 would make his charges disappear and he’d be a free man.

He has not asked why we are traipsing down the beach rather then releasing him on the street. He is not suspicious and I am not obligated to divulge that information to him. He had paid me back at the car - it will go to his victims - just a minor payment on what he actually owes. How the sum was set, I do not know. What universal being knows how many victims a person has, I don’t know that either. I realize this sounds ambiguous so maybe I should start at the beginning.

Six years ago I was sailing with three friends on my 32ft schooner aptly named “The Mystic”. Miles from shore we were besieged by a sudden squall that seemed to come out of nowhere. The Mystic rolled beneath the crashing waves before righting itself again as she was built to do. In that first roll we lost Amanda. One moment she was holding onto the safety line, the next she was gone. I searched the waves but she never surfaced.

As I fought to keep the normally easy handling boat under control the other two passengers, my college friend Joyce and her friend Joan clung to the bow line. Amanda was Joan’s sister - I don’t think Joan even noticed she was gone.

I tried to yell for them to move closer to me but they couldn’t hear me over the roar of the wind. At the crest of one wave I swore I could see sunshine and calm seas ahead but the waves kept coming.
Our third roll took out Joan - maybe she panicked and let go of the line - I don’t know. Each roll it seemed the Mystic took longer to right itself yet there didn’t seem to be an obvious reason why that would be.

The Mystic was holding its own, or so I thought. A sudden crack let loose the main sail which slapped into Joyce on its way over the rail. Alone on the boat I realized that whatever held us in its grasp was not going to let us go. As the boat rolled for its last time, I tried to kick clear of the lines to reach the surface. I could see from below that the last wave had broken the boats back and tried to dodge the debris on my way up.

Just as my head broke the surface, a tug from below pulled me back under. I could see a line from the quickly sinking boat looped around my foot. I could feel myself going down into the deep crushing darkness and as I expelled the last of my breath I experienced a hard thump.

Seconds later I was vomited onto this very beach I now walked. I had no idea how I had gotten here and over the days I might have convinced myself it was a dream had my friends and boat not been gone. I told the authorities that Joyce had borrowed the boat - that they hadn’t returned and I had no idea what had happened to them. After an exhaustive search they were listed “lost at sea”. What else could I tell them when I didn’t understand it myself?

Two weeks later, in the middle of another sleepless night, my phone rang. I hadn’t been sleeping because I always knew the other shoe had yet to drop. On the phone was a nasally sounding man. He explained that my new job was simple. I would start getting emails from deliverus@global.com - it would contain a name, a sum of money, a name and the pickup time/location. My job was simply that I was to pick up the individual, got the money, and walked them down to this very spot that I had landed. They walked forward into the darkness and I went home. The money was always gone from the car when I returned.

Over the years the pickups would talk during their rides. I soon saw a common thread - my pickups were always people who had victimized children in some way. I didn’t ask, I never did or had to. These people would be so happy to be free that they would babble about their crimes - some even about the crimes they still hoped to commit. I guess they figured if I was springing them I must have a twisted past as well.

“Are we almost there yet?” the fat man asked earnestly. I had noticed him glancing at my chest more then once. At 5’5” I did look pretty young for my age but didn’t think I looked in the pedophile range.

“Yes” I murmured looking away. He had no idea what lay in wait for him. For that matter, neither did I because I had never witnessed whatever happens once they walk beyond the dark curtain.

“I want you to know I’m very grateful. I know what I done was wrong but I was drunk.” He twitched - I said nothing.

“I thought the girl was over 12 years old.” he continued, wetting his chubby lips. “She was only 10 but that little bitch looked older. I don’t go for the young ones, I’m not a pervert.” Still not getting a response from me, he stopped and grabbed my arm. I met his stare with a cool glare. He released me but didn’t move.

“I’m telling you this cuz I think you are cute and maybe your taking me way down here because you want a taste of old Freddie”. He rubbed his crotch disgustingly. I recognized that look in his eyes for I had often seen it in my own stepfather’s eyes. He would be waiting for me when I came home from school or sneak in my room in the middle of the night. His horrible fumblings and ineptness often lead to anger. After a few hard smacks to make me cry, he could usually perform and I’d lay there suffering in silence.

My mom was oblivious or maybe she just didn’t care. The abuse lasted until I was thirteen. That’s when I borrowed a knife from the kitchen and threatened to cut his jewels off if he ever touched me again. He was gone the next morning. Mom committed suicide the next year so I was sent to Miami to live with a wealthy aunt. It was the best day of my life.

“Sure dude. Whatever you say - but not here. Up there a bit are some rocks we can do it behind.” I lied as I moved toward the darkness once again. It often sent a shiver down my spine, seeing how the darkness let no light penetrate it. It seemed to be waiting expectantly.

“Alrighty then! I knew you’se were the type to know a real man. Most girls can’t resist old Freddie. Some try but they always want it in the end.” He rubbed on himself some more. At least he started moving again, I thought as I turned away. I needed a shower.

We came to the end of the darkness but he still didn’t seem to notice it. The air was colder but he continued to sweat.

“You go over there by those rocks while I get undressed.” I pointed forward and he nodded like he could actually see rocks there in the dark. He openly leered at me. His hand shot out too fast for me to move away. He grabbed a breast in each hand and squeezed them tightly. He moved in, his saliva dripping tongue licked against my cheek before he leaned in even closer.

“You aint gonna be disappointed. I’m the best you’ll ever have.” he whispered before releasing me and walking off into the darkness. Normally the darkness lifts off like a fog and disappears as if it had never been, taking the person along with it. Not this time. I heard him whisper “Oh yeah baby” though to whom I don’t know. Then came a high pitched scream that ended in a gurgle. Yet the darkness still seemed to wait for something more. After several seconds it dawned on me what it wanted. I whispered “Thank you” and it was gone.

As I made the trek back to my car I breathed deeply, letting the salt air fill my lungs to capacity. I paused a time or two to enjoy the brightness of the stars - always thankful that I could see them twinkle instead of just blackness.

I do not know how long this service will be asked of me. But I realized this night that the bad guys do get what they deserve and that making sure they do is everyone’s responsibility. Anyone of us could be a victim of a predator - everyone one of us had a voice to speak out against these monsters. Maybe my life was all about this from the start. Maybe being a victim has given me the strength to rid the world of such trash. Or maybe this is what the Bermuda Triangle was all about - a darkness that just descends from the heavens.

The Siren’s Song

Have you ever been on the ocean at night watching the moon glisten across the rippling water. On the soft breeze that barely wrinkles the surface, a mournful song teases your hearing. You look around and find no one there - nothing but the moon, the stars, the water and your boat. Still, as you quietly settle back in to your daydreams about far away galaxies, the song comes once more.

Something in the song grips the muscles of your heart with such a sadness that you could cry, yet you have nothing tangible to validate that sorrow. Your heart feels a ragged tear as the song rises and falls on the breeze - growing louder as it moves closer. You still search and see nothing but know someone is singing out there in the dark. Against your own volition you feel yourself straining to see out in the night. For just a second you swear you see a something ahead of the boat in the shadows. You want to see it, want to satisfy your mind that it is real and that the song is not a figment of your imagination. It sounds so forlorn and somber even though you can’t make out the words.

If you know of which I speak, then you have heard the poignant song of the lonely Siren. Many moons ago I walked upright on the dry land. My fair skin basked in the radiance of the sun, my emerald greens eyes flirted vivaciously and my long auburn hair lay in curls down my back. I was envied by some and lusted after by many - but never loved by anyone. Oh, it is a sad story to be sure.

My true love owned a homestead not far from my own parents place. I would wonder over and hide to watch his bronzed body glisten in the hot sun as he worked the soil. A smile that could be matched in beauty only by my own, blue eyes that twinkled their hello and wavy blond hair - oh how I wanted him to love me.

One day, many moons ago, I met him at the water hole quite by accident. Together we stirred our young bodies into adulthood - oh the rapture! We would meet there as often as we could, gently making love. He would often speak of the ocean and someday sailing off into the sunset. I wanted to go along - to be his wife and his companion.

Oh my poor soul! Unbeknownst to me this young devil already had a wife and a baby girl child at home. It wasn’t until we were discovered by my father that I found out how futile my love for him had been. With a heart so black, he lied to my father that I had bewitched him and he, being merely a man, could not resist such a temptation when offered.

Humiliated, ashamed and rageful, my father would not listen to me. Instead he drug me to the nearest port and bartered my life away for some fresh fish and frankincense for Mother. I was whisked off onto a large ship bound for who knew where? Not I, for I had never been this far from home in my whole life.

For many days the ship sailed across the blue ocean in search of what, I didn’t know. I did know that the smelly captain expected me to share his bed and be his wench. I could not bear the thought of his rough hands on my soft skin, his putrid breath breathing on my face, so every night I gave him much to drink and managed to fight off his advances.

My anger burned inside for the man who put me in this position, for my father and for the captain. Before long, my wrath included all men of every age and size. They were the root of all my unhappiness and I vowed with a vehemence every night that I would avenge my miserable life.

One night shortly after we departed, a wicked storm blew up from the north whipping the ship around and battering it with high waves that doused over the rails. Crewmen were sick from the tossing but I screamed against the raging storm, screamed for it to avenge me and cast us all into the sea. I stood on the bow, auburn curls furiously slicing across my face as I shook my fists to the sky.

Before the captain came to yank me into his cabin, I saw the rocks before us - though he did not. I was thrown into his cabin, the door locked behind me. He said it was my fault the storm had come, that a woman on a ship was bad luck but he hadn’t heeded the wise men who told him so. When the ship was hurtled upon the rocks, I heard the crushing of timbers as the ocean ripped a hole in which to come in. People screamed and the ocean roared. I sat on my bunk and I hummed a sad little tune that I had heard as a lullaby when I was but a happy child. Humming I was still when the water overtook the room and I could no longer breathe. I embraced death.

And then, magically, I awakened. If I had died then it felt very weird to be dead. I could breath underwater, I could swim, I could surface and feel the sun on my face. But all these glorious gifts came at a price. I could never walk on land again, never feel the sand beneath my feet, never pick a flower along the fence to our field, never make love again.

Over the centuries, I have lived on in these bountiful waters. Never alone and rarely lonely, I have traveled far and wide, seeing deep caverns, underwater caves, and sea creatures people never knew existed. I never run out of things to read for humans have a nasty habit of leaving their residue of existence upon and in everything - my ocean included.

Many ships have met their fate as their captains searched for the source of the mournful cry. I have no guilt, feel no pity and have no mercy. Once my song is heard, I will haunt your soul until fate delivers you to the watery depths. I am the Siren and revenge is always mine.

STREETLAMP

I stalk the streets at night, flittering in and out of the faint glow of the streetlights. The pavement is wet from misty dew that skidded to a stop overhead several hours ago. I feel it on my face and breathe it deeply into my lungs like a drunken sailor who isn’t sure when he’ll make port again.

Shadowed, I watch people bustling by, racing off to their private hell where they will endlessly chat with people they think they can relate to on some significant level. They attempt to look composed, gathered, and in charge of the train wreck that is their existence. I don’t pretend. I know that life happens in the wee hours of the morning somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Those precious few seconds before the brain awakens to take charge over the heart.

The intangible becomes nothing more then a back burner desire throughout the ceaseless hours that barrage our minds with inconsequential problems and decisions. The answers don’t matter they never have mattered. Neither do the questions because whatever you think you know, you really don’t.

Those frail humans that you relate to throughout the day are no more together then you feel deep down inside the abyss of your soul. They struggle every moment not to let their guard down, not to appear insecure, not to laugh at the wrong moment when really, laughter is all that makes sense. You think these people “get” you or are somehow spiritually linked to who you believe you are – but do you know yourself?

Everyone hungers for that love and acceptance that can only be given by another human being. Yet we hide in the shadows, showing only what can be safely illuminated under the streetlights of our minds. What if they really knew us? What if we really let just one of them into our lives, our desires, our darkness? We are sure the other would scream “My God you’re an abomination!” and then run to call in the brigade to whisk us away to an emotional firing squad.

Look at that man over there by his desk. His confidence exudes from every pore of his being. He smiles a winning smile and invites us to share a slice of his reality as he “helps” us with our daily problems. Yet while he imparts on us the benefits of his schooled and socially acceptable wisdom inside he is as fragile as we. I know, just by looking at him that I could break that cool guise he has so carefully put on today. I could make him sweat – could break through and turn that placid smile into something more real. But I won’t.

Not because I’m generous or an omnipotent being who values his soul. No, simply because I find comfort in his falsehood. He stirs something in me, whether spiritual, mental, or sexual, it doesn’t matter. It only matters that I not destroy it by bringing him down to the level of the street.

Maybe tonight, as I drift off to sleep, he will visit my “real” life. He’ll come as a saint, or maybe as a savior, or maybe a passionate lover who makes me want to wail out with fervor into the soundless night. He could move sinuously in to harm me, kill me even. But in whatever form he comes, that is the person he was always destined to be…to me.

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