The Gauntlet

C S JONES

 

Screams litter the evening sky, a vicious cacophony of musical terror that pierces my near-comatose state. They persist—feral blasts of avian fury. Thunderous and brimming with menace, they boomerang across my muddled psyche, rousing me from my daze.

It takes far longer than it should to understand these screams, and I dare admit complete embarrassment at the fact.

Seagulls.

An army of them patrol the skies. Their numbers cover the fading sun and cast dancing shadows all around me.

In the diluted light of sunset, my blurry vision is poor, and I come to realise there’s a perpetual roar somewhere behind me—one that works in tandem with the cooling breeze that ruffles my hair. The sensation of this alarms me, and it takes all my effort not to spin around and recoil at whatever awaits, only... I can't move. I'm paralysed. Face down, my cheek presses against the ground. Between my teeth, something crunches, tiny specks that set off clusters of landmines in my head. I understand that I'm lying on sand. This is a beach. Reality floods back in like a tidal wave and I realise the roar that occupies my panicked thoughts is the sea. I've no memory of how I got here. Had anything existed before this moment? I press my eyelids together and let my face rest upon damp sand that’s embraced my shape.

Without warning, a bolt of exquisite pain rattles my body. In some ways, it's a relief. I gasp for breath, though this ham-fisted attempt is short-lived. Pain overwhelms. It sears and burns in my chest. I fight to prevent a coughing fit. It's hopeless, and I strain and implode.

Once my fit has subsided, and the spasmodic tremors have faded, I gingerly peer down, though I'm very quick to wish I hadn't.

My legs are in a state of absolute ruin. All that exists below my waistline is pulp and shattered bone. The angles, oh sweet Jesus, the angles, they're unnatural. I am broken. And my back? How must that be? I’m about to cry out, when a pre-emptive flutter in my chest warns me off. Instead, I weep. Truthfully, I couldn't muster anything above a whisper, anyway. My throat is nothing more than raw meat. Had I been in an accident? Somehow gotten away, and, suffering heavy blood loss, washed up ashore? Was it a shark?

My mind wonders, and I hum the theme from Jaws. Completely inappropriate, I know, but I guess there isn't an etiquette to this type of situation. At least it wasn't Baby Shark. That's when you know I've truly given up.

I become keenly aware of the world around. To my right, I see the sandy beach stretches off until it meets the horizon. One things for certain, there's no one else out here.

To my left, a craggy cliff face stares back with cool, callous indifference. I don't understand why, but a chill bites into my marrow. It's impossible to scale, even pre-trauma. It stands at around 80 feet, though it could just as well be a million miles for all it's worth.

It's ahead that bares the most fruit. Though some distance—perhaps 50 feet, I see the berm. Atop it, wisps of unkempt grass billow in the breeze, along with... a person?

At such a distance, they are little more than an outline. My chest flutters. Have they seen me? It's impossible to say, but surely they have. Or perhaps they are looking away, oblivious to my mortal predicament.

I try to call out, but it is futile. In my excitement, I negate just how awfully derelict I’ve become. What produces is little more than a horsish whimper.

I try again. Pointless, I know.

The seagulls still scream. Their boisterous howls mask whatever pitiful sound I make.

They're closer, now. I'm sure of it.

The figure still hasn’t moved, and I decide on my only true option.

I crawl.

With clawed hands raking the sand, I hook and drag with all my might. Trenches form as I shuffle myself forward. The pain is excruciating, but it's progress nonetheless.

I scream internally, I weep, I curse. Still, the seagulls caw. Still the ocean roars. Only, now... the ocean has grown closer.

I hadn't felt it sneak up. It’s when rusty water dampens my chin, leaving bloody foam, that I understand the implications. I want to say I hastened, but I was already at full-throttle. I could do this, if I just carried on. The sight of that person was a golden carrot I had no intention of giving up on.

Something occurs to me that sends a shiver throughout my broken body. I should have realised at the beginning, but there was too much to process. I’m fully clothed. Though tattered, the suit I wear isn't any type of swimwear. How had I—the cliff. That was how. I must've fallen. Still, the memory eludes me.

I'm almost there when I'm pulled back, the lapping tide determined to claim another broken soul. I dig in. Sand sluices through my whitened knuckles, but I'm still here.

I look up. The figure is clearer now. Very real, they weren't turned away, as anticipated. They had witnessed every agonising moment of my struggle. I know this person. Familiarity cuts deep.

“Audrey,” I croak, but there’s no way she can hear. Then it comes back to me.

The cliff.

The argument.

The confession.

The retaliation.

“The tide was meant to take you out, Bernard,” she says, her voice even and cold. “Those rocks, it's just my luck you didn't land on your face.”

Another surge almost pulls me back again. I'm fighting a losing battle.

“Audrey,” I utter again. I'm unable to say much else. It's hard to differentiate between shock and brain trauma.

“Goodbye, Bernard.”

Before I know it, my intended ex-wife is growing smaller, the water, growing deeper. I draw a final, bittersweet breath, and the world is submerged.