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.

A cliff. Overlooking the cove of corpses, the bones of a ship scattered across the beach, the trauma of the storm laid bare in the morning light. Myrie pulls the book from her jacket, the leather is dark and supple, the pages are frayed but intact – every one blank. A pocket has been cut into the back cover, something hidden inside. This is… unexpected.

A key. An address. A locker. A station. $20,000. Myrie handles the notes, feels something warm, something electric, pulse up her spine. Curiosity? Excitement? No.

“NO!”

She checks the book, but it is too late, her story is being written. Overcome and overwhelmed Myrie runs from the station.

A resolution. Her heart frenzies, her legs drag, her feet burn, she stops. She holds $20,000 in one hand, the small black notebook in the other. The miles of road behind her are scarred by the terror she has pummelled into each step, and it is enough, it is already too much. Myrie knows the book will aim to guide, will suggest, implore her even, but she will not look, for as long as she is able.

A room. A neat hotel in a rough neighbourhood; polyester bedding and a lemon scented toilet. Myrie is adrenalin-worn but her mind sparks and jolts, she is harassed by her thoughts which hound her into sleep. And she does sleep. For the first time in centuries. $19,850.

A feeling. Too many feelings buried for the longest time, but most of all shame. To be tempted, resurrected, by what? Money? Is that what happened? No. She will feel it all.

A ticket. A man paces beside a bus shelter. He is saturated in grime, the scent of stale sweat and something base, but familiar, mingle with petrol and hot tarmac. His clothes hang loose from his frame, and his hands shake, barely gripping the cup he proffers to passers-by. He has made poor choices, and now he is stranded and alone in an unfamiliar country. Myrie folds some notes into his cup. $17,000.

A song. A young musician plays an accordion on a market square. The melody is light and fast, people stop to listen, their toes tap along to the rhythm. A second person joins in with a song and a dance begins. The vibrations from the music thrum and flow through Myrie’s body and she dances too. $16,000.

A napkin. Stained with mascara and falling to confetti, a woman tucks it into the pocket of her apron before returning to work. Her calves ache and she wears her exhaustion like a challenge, but she smiles as she brings Myrie her coffee and says “Give me a shout if you need anything hon.” $11,000.

A lane. Sweat needles under her arms and along her back, her breathe is shallow and comes too quickly. A figure blocks her path, another holds her against a wall. She is surprised by the softness of their skin, a hand on her throat while the other fumbles through her pockets. The notebook falls to the floor; a firm strike to the face and Myrie follows it. $0.

A family. A cemetery that exists in her memory. A small wood stands in its place, which is a consolation. The light is soft and made green by a canopy of leaves, even the birdsong sounds muted, reverential. A flash of red to her right. A deer. Myrie follows quickly, but catches her foot on the remains of a headstone and falls.

A page. The book falls open on the mossy ground. Myrie is careful not to read ahead, she feels something warm and electric pulse up her spine. Curiosity? Excitement?

A lifetime. A man approaches slowly, deliberately. He stands over her, his eyes dispassionate as he retrieves the book from her hand.