𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗚𝗢𝗡𝗡𝗔 𝗖𝗥𝗬?

𝗼. 𝘄𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗮𝗹𝗹

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𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 ෴ 𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈
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WILBUR || BRIGHTON, EAST SUSSEX
1987

WILBUR HAD READ THE REPORT in The Argus the previous week. The old paper mill had not been in business for more than fifty years, he could recall. But now, the land was sold to a supermarket chain, and the old building was to be annihilated to make way for a slick paved parking garage. The news had stirred up a storm of spitting debate among those inhabiting the salty coastal town. Some were angry that the city had allowed a portion of Brighton's history to be sold off. Others were excited at the prospect of a new parking space. Progress is progress, Wilbur supposed, taking a short sip of coffee before jamming his key into the ignition.

What did he think? For himself, he was sorry to see the place torn down. Childhood memories of summer beaches and winter air hazed his brain. The sweet scent of pineapple and coconut flooded his senses. The car came to life around him. He wanted to pay his last respects to the weapon of Victoire Dubois' demise. He wanted to watch the thing collapse to the ground.

THE LOWER END OF Bridge Lane was lined with dusty bicycles chained to fences and beaten-down vans parked sideways in the road. Wilbur was forced to double back around and park on the opposite side of the tower's frigid stature. Sleepy winter sunlight welcomed him this morning. The faintest of breezes swept across the crashing waves of the Atlantic. He felt his heart squeeze in his chest. Hands gripped the steering wheel. Wilbur could almost hear her voice now, creeping through the mill's hollow walls. The car came to a shuddering halt around him, dinging as he flung the door open. As he walked across the sandy pavement toward the crowd gathering behind orange-white striped fencing, he could hear someone shouting instructions through a bullhorn. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Warning signs had been posted along the cobbled road, keeping the quiet street deserted of any passing cars or pedestrians. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. HARD HAT REQUIRED. He kept his distance from the scene. Brown eyes glared up at the mill. His breath fogged before him.

A flock of seagulls fluttered away from the rafters as the huge crane parked in front began to move forward, arm stretched high into the barely blue sky. Fat and heavy with the promise of violence, a wrecking ball hangs at the end of the crane's thick steel rope. Wilbur found himself enamoured with the way it gleamed in the silky gold light. He felt the familiar pit of revenge grip his heart.

The mill's giant wooden doors had been padlocked shut his entire life, the eyes into the great unknown beyond them shut away from the world. Now, on its final day of retribution, the doors were flung open wide for everyone to see. Early-morning sunlight fell into the cathedral-like space where vast pulping machines once rumbled. It would have been a surreal, almost winsome sight if had not been for the events that took place all those summers ago. Wilbur wrinkled his nose at the thought. He sucked in a breath of foggy fresh air.

Workmen meandered between one world and the next, their walkie-talkie murmuring too soft for Wilbur to understand. He assumed they were checking all three floors for uninvited visitors before the beginning of the end.

The mill's redbrick chimney pierced the clear blue-grey sky, dragging straight edges against the fabric of the Earth. They had always admired how strong it stood against time itself. By lunchtime, it would be gone.

At exactly nine o'clock sharp a long, shrill blast exploded from a whistle. Wilbur felt his chest tighten. A man climbed into the cabin of the crane and fired up the ignition. The engine rumbled to life with malice coating its sputtering black smoke clouds, extended arm reaching to pull the mill down to its level. The wrecking ball swung from left to right in the air.

The old mill had been on the cliff's edge for nearly a decade, the sweet prospect of demolition brushing just barely out of reach until now. Up and down the boardwalk of Brighton and Hove, abandoned buildings crumbling down from the rafters had been rescued and revived, repurposed for nautical souvenir shoppes and seedy arcades. A handful had been reborn as local art galleries, seaside office spaces, and quaint cafes barely floundering during the lowest rung of tourist season. Since the tragedy of 1978, everyone had been waiting to see what the mill would find itself shaped into.

There had been dozens of attempts at rejuvenating the building, though Wilbur only remembered one: in 1984, an architect was commissioned to design a place of luxury dining with red-timber floors and sleek marbled countertops, overlooking the crashing ocean waves. Brighton, unfortunately, lacked the necessary environment to pull off such an artistic space. Modern minimalism didn't seem to fit into a town of sandy beaches and tacky boardwalk shoppes. Not a single person bid on the building. The place remained deserted ever since.

The wrecking ball's movements were more sporadic now, casting violent shadows against the brick walls with every slice through the nipping air. Wilbur gritted his jaw as he stared up at the crooked balcony, the last place he saw Victoire. He could have sworn he had seen a flash of blonde slip behind the wooden rafters slumped limply against the caving doorway. 

The crane operator begins to rotate the cabin, and Wilbur says one final goodbye to the old building. His body stiffened in anticipation of the first shock of impact. He holds his breath as it comes, a roar of collapsing brick, crushed wood, and splintering glass echoing through the barely-crowded street. Tears begin to cloud his vision. At that moment, he felt a release within him, a quiet letting go. His heart doesn't feel as heavy as before. A slab of the wall is left standing. In one swift motion, it collides with the ground, and Wilbur silently decides that it was time to go. There was nothing more to see.

AS HE WALKED BACK to his old beat-up car, he found himself reminiscing about those two wistful summers, almost ten years ago, when the old mill gave them shelter and Victoire Dubois' strive for boundless love gave them wings. Victoire loved that mill so much. More importantly, she loved him.

Inside those slouching brick walls, the light of blissful youth and unconditional happiness rained down on them, as warm and sweet as the golden sun. Wilbur swept a hand through his hair as he stared at his tired reflection in the review mirror.

Such a bright light cast long, dark shadows.

He jammed the key into the ignition as he stared across at the spot their mill had once stood. The car roared to life. Wilbur rested his hands on the steering wheel with a melancholy smile. The crane reaches down to take a swipe at the chimney, still standing tall against the sky. 

Wilbur decides that he does not want to see the chimney fall. He drives away.