Shoreline: Prologue

by dazedandconfused

Norman

1940

There was no difference between the sea and sky, surfaces of gray reflected in a mirrored kiss. Chalky sand, dark with damp, grated against Norman's bare feet as he waited for the sun to finish rising. He was often up before the horizon started painting its pastel rays, finding comfort in the inky darkness preluding dawn. The peaceful air seemed to be the only way to calm the storm of thoughts crashing against the dam of his mind.

A rosy shell caught his attention, knees groaning in protest as he knelt to drag the pad of his pointer finger across its surface. It was cold and rough like porcelain, its inhabitant made apparent when he gently nudged the seashell away from the sucking earth. "Hello there." He felt a tickle at the corner of his mouth, the closest thing to a smile he could muster.

Rising from the ground and brushing dirt from his palms, there was the comforting rattle of shells in the pouch at his side. He only ever took the empty ones. He didn't care if it made him soft in the eyes of others. He refused to step on ants, to beat away spiders and cobwebs with a broom. If there wasn't a necessity to take the life, he would shy away from violence.

Go punch some tree bark. Get some hair on that chest. His father's voice was a mumble of vitriol between his ears. Norman would often hear such phrases while out on hunting trips, gun too big and heavy for his lanky arms, thin like deer legs and just as shaky. He knew to expect a slap to the back of his head for every failure to pull the trigger, his aim too sharp for failure. He wished he had never allowed his father to watch him shoot empty cola bottles along the fence. The man damn near tried to make him Billy the Kid.

Satisfied with his bounty for the day, he set his sights on the cottage nestled a safe distance away from the craggy cliffs that floated above the ocean like obsidian clouds. It was the home he shared with his wife Frances. They both agreed to let the garden run wild, marking the seasons not by the days but by the growing and fading of flowers they soon came to recognize and name.

These are my children. Frances would say this, honeyed curls framing her face, soil clinging to the hem of her skirts as she caressed preening petals. These same floral leaves bled against the bland summer grass as he climbed back home, loose earth turning beneath his feet and causing him to stumble, surely crumbling some of the shells to ash. This wasn't something that made him worry, for he kept the grainy bits in small glass jars with corked lids, playing at being a wizard or apothecary owner.

Thoughts soon turned towards supper, stomach grumbling as he remembered the peach preserves only half devoured, waiting to be spread across the cornbread he and his wife had made together just days ago. He was still finding specks of flour to wipe up, enjoying that he could see signs of their life together in the home. Norman often purposely left little crumbs or smears to cause him joy later as he cleaned them, a memory springing before his eyes as he did. Their home was as worn and familiar as a well-loved sweater.

There was a souring to his spirits when he saw the unfamiliar shape of a man standing a few yards away from the wooden fence that encircled his property. The stranger was dressed in a thick black coat that curled in the bellows of wind that scented the air with salt, Norman making out the points of a mustache as he drew closer. He momentarily regretted not owning weapons. There was the shovel in the back, leaning against the slowly forming shed he'd been promising to build Frances for years. If he swung it hard enough...

Norman and Frances were solitary people, the only visitors being the postman or the various shopkeepers bringing them wares they had asked for. They preferred a peaceful existence, interactions arranged and controlled. This unwelcome visit was a sign of trouble.

The gentleman lifted a hand in greeting as Norman reached the road he'd paved up to the gate. In response, his fingers curled into a fist tight enough to leave crescents in the middle of his palm. He felt a shout rising in his throat, meant to make the other leave at once, but it turned into a cough as recognition sent pain up his spine. Those dull gray eyes showed nothing, as cold and unpredictable as the sea raging below.

The shoreline and his home disappeared, replaced by cruel laughter, the sound of shattering glass, and a puddle of blood. He was twenty-seven years old again, young and afraid, realizing he had no idea what it was to be a man. He dropped to the ground, shaking his head, willing the sights and sounds away. When he was able to bear it, he looked up, the man much closer.

"No need to grovel." The humor from those curled lips was only for the deliverer, meant as a barb for all else.

"Leave." It was the only word he could utter, the name for this man coming to him like a curse. Richard. He was staring at the other man's appearance closely now, taking in the silver threaded through brown hair, the wrinkles around his mocking mouth. Norman was taller than him now but didn't feel it, especially on his knees. He forced himself to stand, head turning and turning like he was on a bucking horse.

Air hissed as Richard took a deep drag from his cigarette, chin tilting as he blew the smoke straight up, into the face of God. "If I left, you wouldn't get your present." His ghostly pale hand slipped into the pocket of his coat and Norman tensed, feeling foolish when an envelope appeared in the grip of those luminescent fingers instead of the gun he was imagining. "This wasn't my idea. You already know what I think of you. What should've been done to you."

He threw the envelope to the ground and Norman felt his foot dart out to slam over it, pinning it to the earth, keeping the wind from ripping it away. It was like his body knew what his heart didn't yet. This letter was his life. He didn't bend to retrieve it, keeping Richard locked in his sight.

"You should burn it. Throw it over the cliff and let the sharks have it." Richard was turning to leave already, relief evident in the slight loosening of his angular back. His obligation fulfilled. Norman felt like a chore crossed from a list. His visitor's last words were barely distinguishable. Norman could pretend not to hear them. Almost. You know it's what he deserves.

The present tense was what made him unravel, finally. His eyes burned as his hands pawed at the envelope, trembling fingers unable to grab it quickly. He examined it once it was in his grasp, shaking out the cream colored stationery to free it of the detritus he could, seeing that it was blank. Only words contained within. His chest rose and fell, breaths coming in gasps not unlike sobs, but he would not allow the tears to reveal themselves. Grief was a mercy not for the likes of him.

He knew that Frances was out walking, most likely headed to the home of one of her many companions for tea. Off to see your cohort again? He would tease her as she packed a basket with freshly plucked herbs and blooms, cheeks flushed in merriment. He missed her presence now, the tranquility that only her knowing gaze could bring.

Shuffling up the road to unlatch the gate, the sense of safety he and his wife had so painstakingly cultivated over the years together began to unspool like thread. He felt it leaking from his body like spilled life. But there was a spark inside of him that he dared not name aloud, the word pulsing with every beat of his heart, unbidden.

Hope.

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