A girl and her grandfather sit on splintered rocking chairs, watching the asymmetry of the beach from afar. The house they sit on the porch of was once a strong, ocean-blue; now, it’s coral-bleached white, the hue of déjà vu. The town below hums with banal movement. A single car briefly appears in a gap between buildings. Smoke hovers in the air, though it’s difficult to trace it to any one chimney.
Strong wind dashes through the town and its many corridors, tumbles up and across rock, tickles grass, glides across mud, spirals through a huddle of trees, and finds its way, now dilute, to the girl and her grandfather. Strands of hair flutter, then drift. The grandfather’s lip trembles.
“Back when I was your age, I used to visit my grandparents in a place just like this. A little seaside town, full of scowling old couples chipping away at their remaining years. I . . . was never very close to my grandparents.” The grandfather releases a fraction of a sigh. “I saw them a few days a year, and I was young, rude, naive. I don't think they liked me very much.” He squeezes out a staccato chuckle. “and I don’t blame them. But despite that, I still loved being there.”
“Yeah.” A second passes, then another, then another. “I like it here, but I wish you lived a little closer.” The granddaughter glances up at her grandfather, her face unreadable. She sees the light slide and flicker across his face, his hazel-flecked eyes.
“Me too, darling.” The two sit in silence. The striated present separates itself from past and future. The grandfather’s mouth twitches softly, like the movement of a needle on a used record.
Sound flows out of cracked lips. “When I was young, I did some bad things. I wasn’t a good person. I still feel like I’m not, even now. I try to be, but I just . . . I don’t know.” The grandfather’s eyes flit quickly to his granddaughter. “Back then, I had all these — ideas about the world, how things worked. I — ”
“What ideas?” He notices her smile, a small thread of trust.
“. . . Good question. To be honest, I don’t recall the specifics. All I remember was feeling stuck, pinned there in my little — well, it wasn’t little. It was a city. But it felt real, real small. I just had nowhere to go, nothing to do. Nothing.” The grandfather is silent. His stare scratches against the air in front of him like a rabid dog.
“I . . . I just remember me and my parents having so many arguments. We were always mad at each other for one reason or another. I was so, so . . . angry!”
A pause.
“Aw man, I’ve never been a good storyteller. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m right here, right now. Listening. It’s okay. And . . . About having nothing to do . . . I know what you mean. Sometimes on the weekend, when both my parents are at work, I sit on the couch and look at the shadows stretching across the ceiling, and I feel indescribably alone. I think it’s terrifying that you can feel so alone in a world with so many billions of people.”
“That’s exactly it. I — Thank you. Um, I’ll continue. I had always loved nighttime; it felt like the world was . . . in front of me in its truest form. And I despised the incomprehensible mechanisms of daytime society. So, those nights when I felt isolated and afraid, I would wander. It felt like the world was at the brink of death, at night. And yet I felt so alive. Out there, I encountered people like me. That place, that way of existence, was all they had. They fought for it, used violence as a way to assert their place in the world. At the time, I thought they were wise. Brave.” The grandfather cradles his head in his hands. Nebulous tears shimmer in the previously veiled recesses of his eyes.
“You joined them?”
“I embraced that way of life. I would sneak out night after night, wander, get into fights. Lick my wounds. I became nocturnal . . . I loved it. There was something so beautiful about exposing the deepest parts of yourself like that. Baring yourself to the world.” The granddaughter frowns.
“You really thought about it like that? I mean, it meant that much to you?”
“It was my life. I couldn’t — can’t — put it into words. I still feel some kind of uncomfortable connection to . . . all that.” He sighs. “But now I realize that a major part of that was me withdrawing into myself. I hurt a lot of people. Violence . . . tricked me. It did as much damage to me as it did to the people around me.”
“How’d you stop?”
“How did I stop?” How did I stop? Echoes reverberate through mental caverns. “It went too far. We got involved with things, and people, we shouldn’t have. I don’t really want to go into it, but one of my closest friends went to the hospital for a while. I sobbed. I thought he was going to die — he almost did. When I visited him, he told me to leave, to stop. The look he gave me that day was enough, no, plenty. I left.
“For years after, I was broken in every way possible. But eventually I found things. I met new people, stopped hiding. I tried all kinds of new things . . . pulled myself out of the shadowy, decaying corner of my brain I was trapped in and started exploring what else life had to offer. There’s a lot to like, I think.”
“There is.”
“I love you. I hope you know that.”
“Love you too, Gramps.” The house shivers and creaks behind and above them, muttering with wooden teeth. Voices dot a golden field just past the periphery of the grandfather’s vision, then burn off like water droplets on a pan. He feels the air tickle the hairs of his nostrils as he breathes. In, out, in, out . . .
Strong wind dashes through the town and its many corridors, tumbles up and across rock, tickles grass, glides across mud, spirals through a huddle of trees, and finds its way, now dilute, to the girl and her grandfather. Strands of hair flutter, then drift. The grandfather’s lip trembles.
“Back when I was your age, I used to visit my grandparents in a place just like this. A little seaside town, full of scowling old couples chipping away at their remaining years. I . . . was never very close to my grandparents.” The grandfather releases a fraction of a sigh. “I saw them a few days a year, and I was young, rude, naive. I don't think they liked me very much.” He squeezes out a staccato chuckle. “and I don’t blame them. But despite that, I still loved being there.”
“Yeah.” A second passes, then another, then another. “I like it here, but I wish you lived a little closer.” The granddaughter glances up at her grandfather, her face unreadable. She sees the light slide and flicker across his face, his hazel-flecked eyes.
“Me too, darling.” The two sit in silence. The striated present separates itself from past and future. The grandfather’s mouth twitches softly, like the movement of a needle on a used record.
Sound flows out of cracked lips. “When I was young, I did some bad things. I wasn’t a good person. I still feel like I’m not, even now. I try to be, but I just . . . I don’t know.” The grandfather’s eyes flit quickly to his granddaughter. “Back then, I had all these — ideas about the world, how things worked. I — ”
“What ideas?” He notices her smile, a small thread of trust.
“. . . Good question. To be honest, I don’t recall the specifics. All I remember was feeling stuck, pinned there in my little — well, it wasn’t little. It was a city. But it felt real, real small. I just had nowhere to go, nothing to do. Nothing.” The grandfather is silent. His stare scratches against the air in front of him like a rabid dog.
“I . . . I just remember me and my parents having so many arguments. We were always mad at each other for one reason or another. I was so, so . . . angry!”
A pause.
“Aw man, I’ve never been a good storyteller. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m right here, right now. Listening. It’s okay. And . . . About having nothing to do . . . I know what you mean. Sometimes on the weekend, when both my parents are at work, I sit on the couch and look at the shadows stretching across the ceiling, and I feel indescribably alone. I think it’s terrifying that you can feel so alone in a world with so many billions of people.”
“That’s exactly it. I — Thank you. Um, I’ll continue. I had always loved nighttime; it felt like the world was . . . in front of me in its truest form. And I despised the incomprehensible mechanisms of daytime society. So, those nights when I felt isolated and afraid, I would wander. It felt like the world was at the brink of death, at night. And yet I felt so alive. Out there, I encountered people like me. That place, that way of existence, was all they had. They fought for it, used violence as a way to assert their place in the world. At the time, I thought they were wise. Brave.” The grandfather cradles his head in his hands. Nebulous tears shimmer in the previously veiled recesses of his eyes.
“You joined them?”
“I embraced that way of life. I would sneak out night after night, wander, get into fights. Lick my wounds. I became nocturnal . . . I loved it. There was something so beautiful about exposing the deepest parts of yourself like that. Baring yourself to the world.” The granddaughter frowns.
“You really thought about it like that? I mean, it meant that much to you?”
“It was my life. I couldn’t — can’t — put it into words. I still feel some kind of uncomfortable connection to . . . all that.” He sighs. “But now I realize that a major part of that was me withdrawing into myself. I hurt a lot of people. Violence . . . tricked me. It did as much damage to me as it did to the people around me.”
“How’d you stop?”
“How did I stop?” How did I stop? Echoes reverberate through mental caverns. “It went too far. We got involved with things, and people, we shouldn’t have. I don’t really want to go into it, but one of my closest friends went to the hospital for a while. I sobbed. I thought he was going to die — he almost did. When I visited him, he told me to leave, to stop. The look he gave me that day was enough, no, plenty. I left.
“For years after, I was broken in every way possible. But eventually I found things. I met new people, stopped hiding. I tried all kinds of new things . . . pulled myself out of the shadowy, decaying corner of my brain I was trapped in and started exploring what else life had to offer. There’s a lot to like, I think.”
“There is.”
“I love you. I hope you know that.”
“Love you too, Gramps.” The house shivers and creaks behind and above them, muttering with wooden teeth. Voices dot a golden field just past the periphery of the grandfather’s vision, then burn off like water droplets on a pan. He feels the air tickle the hairs of his nostrils as he breathes. In, out, in, out . . .