Wounded Beacon

Keeper's House

When entering the keeper's house next to the tower, I opened one eye and took in the scene. It occurred to me that the lighthouse was an old historic landmark, because the keeper's house held the resemblance of an old nineteenth century system. However, most of the furnishings had been vandalized, or naturally damaged. Even some of the woodwork had been removed. Fixtures and flooring were missing or misplaced.

If someone had been living in the house, they did a poor job of keeping it up. I assumed the tower was in no better condition. Maybe the lens to the light wasn't intact like I had imagined after all. Most of the glass in the windows of the living area was broken, cracked, or absent.

The light and shadow play crept across the sandy wooden floors as sunlight shone through the uncovered windows. A decent-sized kitchen to the right and the bunk room to the left across the large living area accommodated one or two people comfortably.

At a fast but careful pace, I made my way to the kitchen sink alone. A pathetic stream of cold clear water drizzled out of the faucet. I collected it in my cupped palms and rinsed my face and eyes as well as I could, feeling instant relief. I allowed water to coat my tongue. Indeed, it was fresh. The longer the water ran, the water pressure became worse, until it was just a drizzle. Still, it would do.

"Where's the canister?" I asked.

In no time, Aiden was beside me, placing the empty container in my hand, then he was gone. The wooden cabinets squeaked on their hinges as he searched each one, probably for food. He huffed. No such luck.

Aiden let out a long sigh. "Now we rest and figure out what to do from here."

Rest sounded good. But he was still talking that we business.

"Thanks and all, but you've done enough for me." When he didn't respond, I made my way around the small house, blinking open one eye long enough to scan my surroundings. Each room held some sign of destruction. But the last room resembled an old laundry room, with a deep washbasin and shelves. I turned the faucet on to the same pathetic drizzle of water as the kitchen sink. In the washroom, a lone comfy-looking chair sat in the corner. Odd. I couldn't make out any other details but that it was thick and plush, probably dusty, torn and stained too. I sat in it anyway, letting out a long, "Ahhh." The arms rested high as if they were welcoming me into the chair's calm embrace.

Directly across from me, near the wall heater stood a single window. On the other side were trees with thick twisted branches and deep green leaves that obscured most of the view. The window was undamaged, a good sign.

The sound of Aiden's tattered shoes sliding against the planks gave away his approach at the doorway. I turned my head to take in the image of his svelte figure as he rested at a slight angle against the doorjamb.

"How are your fishing skills?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Lousy."

"I can't fish or hunt for shit, but we need food. And wood for a fire tonight."

"Just rest for now. We'll fish in a few hours." I sighed as my body sank deeper into the cushion. "You know, Santos has been out to get me for some time now." It was true. "Ever since I confronted him for harassing some of the people at camp. His threats about getting rid of me and sending me to my final resting place were taken seriously. I may not be high on his to-kill list, but he will take any chance to get at me. Your life is in danger too."

"My life was in danger as soon as I entered that prison," he said. "My life was at risk as soon as hell crawled all over our globe. Since I was born. Nothing's changed. My life will be in danger until the day I die. I realize that." He moved closer. "And the last time I checked I was a big boy, so stop worrying about me and why I'm still here."