Christy Taylor

A Life

A survivor. The rattle and spit of a man choking through his final moments, clawing at the shingle, dragging his broken body from the sea. Myrie approaches slowly, deliberately. She watches as he wrestles with his sodden cloak, tearing frantically at the fabric to reach what? A pocket. A small black notebook. He scrabbles at the pages which have curled and clung to one another, wails as his strength and life fail him. Myrie stands over him, his eyes meet hers, desperate and begging. She leans down and retrieves the book from his hand before walking away.