Black

Written by Sam Cutting

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There's nothing to compare when admiring the colour of the sea at night. To cast gaze upon it is to be tempted by the hideous, yet inviting black, and tempered by compelling blues that lie beneath the grandest tones of white, in kingly waves that break upon a servant shore. And when standing on the shore, this exponent of nature is utterly, alluringly awesome.
    When standing on the shore, there is only the slightest, almost childish sense of danger; a rogue wave may capture your ground like a conquering soldier at any moment, or you may slip and become drenched in the incessant tide. Such danger, however, is thoroughly multiplied when not standing on the shore. When bobbing on a rubber ring in pitch darkness, with little feeling from the waist downward - having no sight of the aforementioned solid land - 'dangerous' is quite possibly the sole descriptor.
    Such is the situation.
    Quite how this occurred within an evening I don't know - and I have even less of an idea of how to retrieve the situation. I simply know I am cold.
    The beach and the 'front horde many people, of strange dispositions and stranger identities, but this only endears me further to it, and I frequent it often. Tonight was no exception; I shuffled along the grey stone, lined by towering, imperial street lamps on one side, and the shoddy wooden fence opposite on top of the sea wall. The serene air was only pierced by the vulgar light of the pier in the distance, standing with all the charm of some over-decorated Christmas tree. I stood, leaning against the nearest post, in wait for my friend. I say friend, she was more of an acquaintance. Even then I didn't truly know her. I just knew where she'd be.
    The wind began an evening howl and picked up somewhat, as if trying to shoo me from my spot. Resilient, I carefully lit a cigarette. Turning away from the sea and glancing up at the consistent drone of the road, I ran through my head what I'd been told. I often had such 'blind dates'. It was always quite exciting, not knowing what she'd look like, or where we'd go, or how we'd do it. I was always courteous, but never nervous - I couldn't afford to be.  Nervousness didn't seem to fit into my relationships.
    I finished my cigarette, and was about to light another when I saw a figure walking down from the road, onto the lawns, and towards my spot. I quickly turned slightly away from her (for I knew it was her) and put both my hands in my pockets. I noticed her quickening, and calling out a name. I'd forgotten his name, the one who sent me them. He was always far too reliable. It didn't matter. I waved feebly. She neared me.
    She was shorter than I, petite in a sense. A brunette, her hair was cropped short and spikily styled, with gel that stuck to the fingers. She wore a long, brown overcoat to keep out the wind that now, with even greater vigour, tried to prise us from the seafront. Her eyes were dark brown, deep; the kind of eyes that emotion washes into, creating a lake of tears which don't ever seem to dry. I turned to face her properly for the first time and greeted her. She seemed confused that we were meeting by the sea on such a cold night. I said I found it romantic, and we started walking.
    We made small-talk; I've become very good at this. I can seem like the most brilliantly interesting wonderful man for twenty minutes. After that, nothing else really matters. Not for her anyway. We stayed wandering along until she said she was getting cold, and wanted to leave. Then I took my hands out of my pockets, rubbing them together for warmth. I said we'd go in a second.
    "Let's just have one last look out to sea"
    The knife slide out with greater difficulty than usual, though from behind it's easier to find the right point. She screamed, as they always do, and I clung to her, trying my utmost not to get blood on my coat; more difficult than it sounds with such a deep wound. Her siren mouth was silenced by my hand as we struggled toward the stone groin in some macabre dance, with I her uncomfortable partner. We made it to the edge of the front, and I threw her over the wooden fence onto the rock below. She gasped in pain, her energy failing. Her face, pale through injury, was heavenly silver in the moonlight. Now she was easier to control. We got half-way to the sea and I laid her down. The darkness enveloped us well enough, only the slightest shards of light cutting through.  Already the fury of my deed was getting the better of me. I was not aggressive - merely firm. One underestimates the difficulty of a slippery surface when so fuelled with testosterone. The sound of the gulls and the lapping of water was the only thing heard. I'd learnt to be silent. I was weary afterwards, and the laboursome task of disposal appeared before me.
    The inviting black obliged as it always did.
    She floundered, as the final drops of life were wrung out of her body by the saltwater. I turned, walking back up the groin. There wasn't too much blood around, and little on my coat, not that it matters much now. I hastened, and slipped on the bloody stone, landing and injuring my arm. The temptation to cry out unbearable, I held it as best I could and continued upward onto the 'front.
    At this point, it was another night, like my others. Now I come to my situation. I reached the fence, taking longer than normal to climb over. I looked up to notice a second figure not too far ahead of me, advancing. Clutching the knife again, both hands in pockets, I strode forward. He stopped in front of me, a smile creeping into his otherwise blank countenance. I noticed other figures in the distance; I was sadly outnumbered. My far too reliable source had just come to bury me. Even now I can't remember his name.
    Instinctively I plunged my right hand out into his direction, with the knife in its hold. I was given the same knife as a boy by my uncle. I was perhaps fifteen, but for some reason it held a great majesty. The handle was ebony, beautifully crafted with a shell-like appearance. The blade, a good six inches long, was decent enough for virtually any circumstances. I would play with it, carve wood, throw it at targets; there was a brilliantly powerful feeling in controlling such a seemingly dangerous object. I began to become terribly proficient, and from that time onward I have never been without it. It is a true companion, one who protects me wherever it finds me wanting, and that serves my purposes without complaint. I'm sure my uncle forgot about it; and only my mother really knew of it. She was afraid of me. Perhaps I was just as afraid of her.
    On this occasion my 'protector' was inadequate. He pre-empted my attack, and held my wrist so tight as to force me to loosen my grip. It dropped to the stone with little sound.
    He continued, twisting my good forearm as I tried to withdraw. I could do little with the other hand, and could only curse the girl's blood for causing such. The other figures approached. Fearing being surrounded, I lashed out with the bad arm. Flame rose up my shoulder and into my head. It caused him to fall back, having caught him well in the face. I turned and tried to run. For all the world I ran, with every effort from inside my failing body. My lungs wept inside my chest, and my eyes simply saw lights in the distance. Any ounce of energy remaining flowed manically into my muscles but there was simply not enough. Inevitably I felt their footsteps behind.
    I was taken, bound, and sent out to sea, to drift with the tide. I can only now agree that I should've been more careful. I should've noticed the lack of a question in his manner, the brilliantly obliging way he supplied me with a relief for my troublesome addiction. Others were never as helpful; I usually had to find my own. As for now, I find myself on my own. The sea never invited me in.