Messages From a Watery Grave

She bit her lip hard, wincing at the pain. A trickle of blood ran down her chin. She did it again this time ignoring the pain, if she could feel it, she knew she was still here. Whether she wanted to be or not. It made no difference anymore either way. She could smell the saltiness in the air, feel the breeze moving her hair around her face, but her heart was empty.

The sky was the brightest blue she had seen it for a long time. The grey storm clouds a distant memory. She absentmindedly ran her palm over the wooden bench. She wondered how many bottoms before hers had graced its weathered, polished slats. This was HER bench. She sat here every day. Keeping a vigil, an eye on the horizon looking for a blue, white, and red fishing boat.

Her body needed to sigh. To release months of sadness and anger. But it would not. Instead, a tightness corseted her. It prevented her from relinquishing her anguish, her pain, and any emotions that she should have felt. It had been six months now since he left in the little fishing boat. She saw him smiling as he walked out the door. ‘I just want to catch our supper!’ He had laughed, knowing he always returned empty handed but enjoyed the experience, the challenge.

His dream of living by the sea, the salty air tanning his smooth skin, the breeze tousling his blonde curls and writing the long-planned novel, on the back burner for years, had become a reality. So, when the sea became rough and boats were warned to stay moored, Tom did not come home.

She shut her eyes. There he was, brushing the hair from her neck, gently kissing the space that became vacant. She opened her eyes and stared out to sea. She was a cruel mistress. Giving her bountiful gifts and asking for everything in return! The Ocean’s revenge. She had read that somewhere, she was sure. She walked down to the waters edge and threw the small glass bottle at her. ‘There you go then, take it to him. You took him from me you, you hateful bitch!’ She had tried to shout the words, but they tumbled out, a muffled muttering. She watched as the bottle bobbed around before eventually disappearing into the dark blue green water and was gone. She turned around and began to climb the steep coastal path that led back to their small weatherboarded coastguard's cottage.

She returned to her bench just after lunch the following day. She had claimed it as her own, scowling at anyone else that dared to sit on it, until they eventually left. It rarely occurred. The only visitors were usually Sea birds. As she opened her sandwich box she thought she could see something glistening in the sunlight. It was embedded in the compacted sand. She put the lid back on her sandwiches, the eager eyed gulls would not miss any opportunity to grab a quick snack, and made her way down to where it was. A glass bottle, the kind that you would have ketchup in was sticking up, its white plastic-coated lid obvious. She pulled it free examining it more closely. There seemed to be something inside it. The lid was stuck fast. It took sheer brute force to unscrew the lid. She tipped the contents into the palm of her free hand. It was a piece of white paper. She read it incredulously, not believing her eyes.

‘Hello My Love,

I miss you too more than words can express, I long to be back there with you, and wish I could, but I can never come back to you. You will always be my heart and soul; you say there is no you without me, there is no me without you too my love. But you must go on with your life, move on, and live for both of us now! ‘

Your loving husband,

Tom

The paper fell from her fingers and for the first time in months she released a sound that reverberated against the rocks and flowed across the water. A scream, a cry, a bellow, a sigh, all her pent-up emotions that had hid away for so long in her caged soul, exploded from within her. Sea birds scattered, screaming high up in the air, in unison, in reply. She fell to her knees digging her hands deeply into the sand, tears streaming like rivers down her face.

That night she could not sleep. Her mind was in turmoil, her heart aching for answers. In the morning, she had to write him another note, sealing it back into another bottle. She walked down the path and threw it out to sea. She sat there for a few minutes, and when she could not see it anymore, she left for work. She had been offered a part-time job as a waitress in the little café by the coastal path several miles away. It was the same café that they used to have breakfast at some mornings or stop off for a cake and coffee, watching the world go by. It was the only other place that she could still feel him, apart from their little cottage. So, when the owner, Josh had asked her if she needed some work, she had jumped at it.

Today she had been distracted. So many thoughts were running through her head. Thoughts she never imagined she would be thinking about again. Josh had noticed. ‘Are you okay Eron?’ he asked her in a concerned voice. She just nodded, smiled, and carried on clearing tables. She did not want to make polite conversation, not today, not any day really.

Another sleepless night. She tossed and turned in bed. Tom came to her. He was soaking wet, covered in barnacles and seaweed. His mouth opening and shutting like a fish on dry land. A withered hand was beckoning her. Lifeless eyes fixed on hers. She suddenly awoke, sweat pouring from her quivering body. Her heart was racing. ‘It was just a dream’ she told herself. But still, she could not get back to sleep.

She was on their beach at first light, pacing up and down looking for shiny, reflective objects. She had been doing this for ages. Kicking away beach debris in case it was obscured from view by driftwood or netting. And then suddenly, there it was. Another similar bottle to the earlier one sticking out from some pebbles. She greedily opened it, eager to read the message it held. It was a little blurrier than the last message, but she could read it easy enough. Her eyes devoured the writing, scouring the lines, drinking in every word.

My Darling Eron,

I am afraid that this will be the last message I can write to you. I am drifting between worlds; my essence is deteriorating. Please remember me as I once was. I will always be your loving husband, always be there for you, but you must fly little bird, fly away. You need to be happy.

Forever and ever,

Your Tom.

She read it over and over again, not believing that this would be his final message. He wanted her to be happy, to fly away. Had he not always said that to her! It was clear what he was telling her. Her confused state of mind, the lack of sleep and the renewed hope that he was still out there, waiting for her. She knew what she had to do. Eron slipped off her trainers, socks and shorts, finally removing her t-shirt. Folding them up into a neat pile on the bench. She placed the bottle with the returned message, on top of the pile. She stared at them, just for a minute. She needed no more validation. She turned, walked towards the sea, and began to wade out.

By the time Josh reached the bench all that was left of Eron was a sand covered pile of folded clothing. On the top was a small glass sauce bottle. He already knew what was inside it. For he had written it. From the first time he saw Eron on the bench four months ago, he had been keeping an eye on her, from a distance. He offered her the vacancy at his café hoping it would help her to get out again and begin to recover. He hadn’t realised until now, that he was falling in love with her. When he saw her throw a bottle into the sea, he had wandered down, making sure that she had left. The tide had turned and the bottle scuttled to his feet. He knew now he should not have opened it or pretended to be her ‘missing, presumed dead’ husband. That was a devastating mistake. He gazed out to sea, scanning the horizon looking for her. But there was nothing but bright blue sky, the whooshing of the sea and those darned screaming sea birds.