Blame The Weeds (gxg)

7

The lighthouse hadn't operated for over thirty years, but it had a purpose in my little life. Its weathered red and white paint was evidence of its valour, how it stood undaunted upon the rocks to warn sailors of dangers they couldn't see. So I ventured here in the fog with my notebook and pens in hand for a moment of peace. I was its only friend these days.

I stood at the base as the lighthouse loomed over me. Fog rode along the Atlantic waves, crashing against the rocks on which it stood. There were local stories of a woman in a red dress who drowned here, waiting for her lover to come home from the sea. Of all my years staring out into the water, I'd seen only mist and storms. When Luke was gone, I'd climb the rusty ladder to the circular platform above and watch the waves, imagining that he was seeing them too, even as a ghost. Maybe I was never looking for a woman in the first place.

Clamping my notebook between my teeth and sticking my pens into my mist-dampened curls, I grabbed the rusted ladder and climbed. The higher I ascended, the colder it was and the saltier the air became. I sat on the grate and let my legs dangle over the edge. Only two metal bars of the old rail keep me from falling to the rock below. If I were ever lost to the mist, maybe they'd tell stories about me, too. Finally, I was above it all. Opening my notebook, I smoothed the pages against the wind and continued my latest sketch—Tacca chantrieri. The black bat flower was an unusual plant with bat-shaped petals that spanned outwards, and two-foot-long whiskers. The perfect representation of natural darkness. I wrote a few words under my sketch.

Plant was once thought to be pollinated by pesky flies seeking decay

I knew of decay. For two years, I watched Ida Hoffmann's garden decay from abandon. So maybe flowers and hope weren't that different. Luke's parents had moved forty minutes south and never sold the house. It lay next door, a stark reminder of lost time, and so unassuming to those who didn't know the story. The searches had shrivelled as people lost enthusiasm, and one day, so did Ida and Frank. Eventually, I'd stopped visiting.

Ahead, the ocean groaned and hissed. The water worked away at the base of the lighthouse. Relentless, powerful, dangerous. Sometimes I'd think about finding Luke myself, no matter the cost. I could bury the evil in the ground and save him before it broke him. Could I do it? Could I kill? It didn't matter. The monsters were already dead. Still, the ideas flitted through my mind like sharp shadows, darting from corner to corner in the dark. I wanted the monsters deep, deep in the ground, farther and farther still, until the heat from the earth's core melted their flesh away and nothing but their screams were left. There were times I couldn't stop my thoughts from spilling over, and my breath would come quick and hot without rest, and my lungs would seize and burn with the effort of it—the panic.

I closed my eyes and pressed my notebook to my chest. The ocean drowned my thoughts with its dark watery depths and vengeful beauty. It lived over mountains and at the bottom of trenches, reaching around the earth in a protective embrace. It was infinite hues in hundreds of weather patterns. Yet, for all the storms and rage, it was the loveliest colour I ever saw.

I parted my lips to the saltwater gusts, and breathed.

~

The shivering began as soon as the warmth touched my chilled skin. Biting down on my notebook, I wrung out the sleeves of my hoodie on the front mat with trembling hands.

"Kareena Barone you're dripping on my parent's floor and they don't like that."

I recognized that fast voice. It was Moe, the slender young man with a sparse moustache. He stood behind that cramped counter space staring at me.

"You're dripping," he said.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but it's pouring outside." Using a band on my wrist, I tied my damp curls at the base of my neck. Pieces popped out at my temples, tickling my skin, and it took the remainder of my resolve not to throw a fit.