Day 2: Beach
This was ‘their’ place. A private stretch of beach that had been in his family for more years than he could fathom. It was quiet, and peaceful, and as close to Heaven on Earth as possible…
He snorted. When she’d said that to him, he’d scoffed at the saccharine poetry of it, but upon reflection admitted she was right. That was why he loved the place so. The turquoise waters were clear and calm, the white sands like fine powder, the soaring cliffs and silent trees offering privacy and protection from intruders and wild weather alike.
He recalled the delight shining in her face when he’d first brought her here, the breathless amazement when he’d slipped the blindfold from her and stepped back. She had gasped, gazed about, drinking in the tranquillity, the beauty, the perfection. He’d been happy because he’d pleased her so.
For nearly a year this had been their special place. Their secret. Nobody else in the family came here, they preferred the beach directly without their grand property. So he and Marissa had total privacy, which they always made the most of.
Life was perfect. She was perfect.
But somehow, somewhere, things changed between them. Marissa began to seem off, distant, strange. Her smiles were less frequent, her laughter stilted – forced, as if she made herself appear happy to try and fool him. He tried to talk to her, to assure her she could be honest with him, she could tell him anything, but she would give that queer smile and draw him toward the beach. No longer would she call it our place, just the beach. As if even there she sought to draw a line beneath their intimacy and set them on a more platonic path.
He felt her, saw her, sensed her slipping away. No, not merely slipping but striding – resolutely, determinedly, as close to wrenching herself apart from him as she could without physically recoiling – and he had no clue what to say, what to do, to bring her back. He gave her roses, presented her with chocolates, picked out a pretty necklace for her – which she somehow lost while swimming that same day, and didn’t even seem concerned or apologetic for it.
His pained heart fractured then, for never before would she have been so careless with a gift. She was withdrawing herself from him, and it hurt. So deeply, it hurt; that she could be so cavalier with his feelings when he’d given himself to her – body, soul, and all else he could spare.
He had to do something. This was wrong. It was cruel. So he asked her to join him, to talk. Clear the air, he’d said, total honesty. And she’d agreed.
Then she’d lied to his face.
He suggested they meet at their place; yes, she’d replied wanly, I’ll see you on the beach. So she was ready to make the break. He steeled himself, reminding over and over he wanted honesty. He needed truth.
She had walked toward him cautiously, slowly, without the exuberance and spirit he’d so cherished, and his heart sank even more. This was the end.
We were happy, weren’t we? he’d said, emotionlessly. He refused to give her tears or sadness or pain. She’d taken enough.
We were… Yes, we were. She sighed, staring out at the flat ocean, eyes troubled, small lines carved around her mouth. I’m sorry, Johnny.
He fought the desire to clench his fists, instead ran his fingers through the warm, dry sand. Is there anyone else?
She went still, left eyelid twitching. No, of course not. Shaking her head, she repeated, stronger, Of course not.
She lied. He always knew when she fudged the truth – the stillness, the twitches, were her tells. She’d sworn honesty, and refused to give it. She might have argued it was to spare his feelings, but he was a grown man. He needed to hear it – from her lying, befouled lips.
He tried again. Marissa, I love you. We can make this work. We can try again.
I’m sorry, Johnny. I…I still love you (fingers twitching now) but I think I’ve outgrown you. I need more than just constant ‘I love yous’ and ‘I need yous’ and snuggling on the sand. I need…I need a man. A real man. And… I’m sorry, but that’s not you. Not anymore.
Each word struck him a physical blow; he imagined the bruises already forming, while he somehow kept a neutral expression on his face. Lying bitch. Are you sure?
She’d nodded, reaching for his hand. Then she’d had the audacity to ask if she might still be able to come here – to the beach, our old place – to remember the good times. Because they did have good times, ones that deserved fond reflection.
Numbed by her callous coldness, he jerked his head in a sharp nod, and did not resist when she pulled him into a relieved hug. He’d wrapped his arms about her, holding her close, his fingers walking over her back, her shoulders, touching her, like old times. When she’d tried to pull away his grip tightened, and when she cried out his mobile fingers clamped down upon her throat, squeezing, pressing, tightening. She kicked at him, scratched with her manicured nails, cried pitiful tears of false grief, until her grunts and gurgles and wheezes faded. Her movements stilled. The animation in her brilliant eyes died away, until, sightless, they stared at him, through him, beyond him, at a place he couldn’t imagine, a world he couldn’t visualise.
She was dead. Dead – already! He’d wanted it to last, to make her hurt for as long as she’d hurt him. Longer, even. But he’d rushed it. Hadn’t even been able to enjoy it, as he’d wanted. He had robbed himself.
Suddenly revolted by her dead body pressed against his he dropped her to the sand, reality clicking into place. He’d already prepared the perfect spot for her, and dragged her to where the deep hole lurked expectantly. It was a struggle to position her properly, but when she was standing in it and the sand packed up to her throat, he sat beside her and idly twisted her hair through his fingers. She was supposed to be alive, to watch with him as the tide slowly crept closer to her. He’d wanted to sit with her, soothing her fears as the water lapped against her neck, her lips, submerged her as she pleaded with him to save her.
Well, he would still sit with her. In their place.
Forever now their place.
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