ROAD MAPS, Chap. 1

CHRISTOPHER

Chapter 1

The black rock beneath his bare feet made marks deep enough to draw blood. He watched the sea, the incoming tide sloshing against where he stood, pooling around the base of the rock, until his toes were under water. The rock protruded three feet from the sand. He was certain of two things, swimming or drowning. Salt water is homeopathic for wounds, of which his feet held many, old and recent.

Where once, the eternal dull ache of plantar fasciitis, now, the stinging of salt rushing over glass shards, buried at various depths into the soles. As he came to this place, transported by car and walking, the adrenaline cauterized his wounds, feeding him sedation. And if he needed comfort, there was the fog, the thick blanket of grey goose fog that cradled his skin, spooning him. 

Had it not been for war, for violence, he may have never gotten what he wanted. A warm place. A clean bed. Touch. The velocity of touch determining outcome, but it cannot be overlooked for human contact. Christopher wants human contact.

Christopher, there are no planes. A voice whispers. No rumbling in the sky. There are small birds, in place of big ones, that walk along the tide's frothy crest, picking plankton in tweezer beaks, running into and away from with the oscillating shore. He imagined these birds might play at Disney, pick up cartoon qualities and come to him, pecking glass from his feet as such birds might mend a gown or sort lentils from a fireplace. 

It's very cold here. It's very cold, but the cold isn't bad. The cold is, perhaps, empty, but it's not harmful. The cold feels, almost, suburban. As in, quite safe, if you don't look too hard. 

Water rose to Christopher's ankles. He was the sea.

A water slide at his spine, a hundred people riding down the back of him, hands grabbing at his guts and pulsing body meat, the deep of him opened and down the back of his legs flowed his insides. Lava fermented sea salt, murky redness welling in surround sound. It was now that he felt the struggle where the cold takes on a different face, becomes green with envy, and hunts for sport. Water no longer docile, but thirsty and poised for attack. 

The getting here and the getting out are mysterious. The fog, it's own thing. 

But shall the sea, makes his brain go and cry, again. Christopher has no soul. He has tears. 

Body begins to tense because body knows, before soul or skin. So, Christopher, what will you do? Christopher is stuck. Ten wooden splinters in anal cavity, and the broken glass crab walk, Christopher will bleed out here, not remembering. 

Will you remember the hotel?

Will you remember the canned pinot noir?

Will you remember the lumberjack? The flannel shirt that got stuck in your throat? A leather boot that was held as a weapon? The iPhone that was caught by a plane? The electric furnace? 

Christopher stands. He stands on a black rock, three or four feet out of the sand. In his bare feet, shards of glass put there by no one. In his mouth, words that couldn't find sentences. In his lungs, bird truth, brown paper bags. Where he looks, the sea.