seven regrets

The Sleeping Giant (Nathaniel)

The sea crashed onto the shore and left a swirling, frothy foam in its wake. I sat in that foam now, clothes wet and feet buried in the damp sand. I stood, shivering slightly, as I watched the moon. No stars were shining tonight, but it was tranquil and deserted. This beach is isolated- I am one of only four people who know about this place.

And I am the only one of those four who is still alive.

My mother and father had moved here when they got married. They were quiet, peaceful people- the kind of people whom no one ever seemed to notice. They were the same in so many ways-they spoke softly, and they had always taken the time to notice the little things. Maybe that came from them never being noticed themselves.

They lived long and had good lives, my parents. 

But my daughter is a different story.

She was born under a full moon-I remember it so clearly-her wails pierced the silence of the night.

Pins and needles. Her screams were like pins and needles.

But to me and my wife, they were beautiful.

We cherished those screams. We did even more so when she stopped making sounds altogether.

She never talked. We never heard her utter a single word.

She was mute.

And she disappeared years ago. 

She was lost along the same shores that I walk along now. The same moon shone down on her, and she walked under its light like a blanket, slipping out of reach.

I never found out where the moon led her.

All I know is this:

-she could not make a sound.

-she had blonde hair that shone in the moonlight.

-her eyes were a crystal blue-clear and hard.

-her favorite color was white.

-her name was Seraphina.

-she was thirteen years old.

--

She scribbled on a notepad once, and told me, "I don't think that I was ever meant to speak."

She said: "I think I must've been able to when I was younger. But I never felt the need to say anything."

She left then, and left the note behind. She was always doing that, leaving scribbles on paper and giving them to me. 

I kept those scribbles, all of them. But I haven't looked at them for years. They bring too much memories. Her screams. The moon. The color of white. They remind me of too much.

I started painting everything with black. My clothing became dark; as did my personality. Even my eyes hung with sadness, weighed down by black bags. Was that wrong, to deliberately try to forget her? Either way, it never worked. I already knew that I could never forget her. It wasn't because I was her father; no one could forget her. She was just one of those people.

My relationship with my wife collapsed under the weight of burning arguments and cold, hard silence. One by one, all our bridges were struck down, until nothing remained. We were no longer connected.

And I was left alone.

The sand nibbles on my toes now. I sit down. Closing my eyes, I feel a light breeze, and smell salt. 

I wonder if she is watching me now. Ever since she was a young girl, this had been our niche, our place to congregate. The gulls would cry and the lighthouse would stand proudly in the distance. And when it was night, the lighthouse would shine its beacon, and we would watch it guide ships to shore.

I look towards the lighthouse. Now, it is nothing but eroded rock and worn-down rubble. I don't recall exactly when it collapsed. I know it was after Seraphina left, though. Maybe it was also crestfallen by her departure. She loved going to the lighthouse; it was one of the very few places where she would allow herself to smile.

I remember going into that lighthouse, when Seraphina was just a small girl. It was small and cramped, and I could barely move around. After several minutes of futile attempts, I settled down in a corner and watched Seraphina pretend to guide the ships safely to shore.

She put her arms together and waved them around, imitating a light beam. As I looked down on her from my little corner, I felt like a sleeping giant, passively watching the events of the world. 

A gull cries sharply overhead, interrupting me from my reverie and forcing me to return to the present. Looking up, I see the bird- but it is not a gull at all. Blinking my eyes once, twice, three times, I realize that I am staring into the small, beady black eyes of a crow.

It lands on the sand next to me, opens its mouth, and caws. It flies away then, leaving nothing but a pair of tracks.

I stand, brushing sand off. And slowly, step by step, the sleeping giant makes his way to a crumbled lighthouse.

Behind me, the waves gnaw on the shore, leaving a white, swirling foam in its wake. It eats the bird tracks and then secedes. 

I reach the remains of the lighthouse after several eternities.

The moon followed me all the way.