He’d fallen asleep without tying his boat and now the tide returned and carried him out to sea and when he woke he was surrounded by water without land in sight. His oars weren’t in the boat; all he had was the fishing net that had bruised his back as he slept.

  He tried paddling with his hands, a task that soon became futile as the waves only carried him further out. Away from the land and its atrocities. Away from those who sought to brand him a fisherman and keep him so.

  He’d dreamt of a manor forged of gold. With giant oak doors and windows with actual glass on them. He’d walked the lawn before the manor, felt the grass crush beneath his steps. There were servants, dressed in burgundy and there to answer his every whim. They’d offered refreshments that all tasted like water and bread. He’d been grateful then he’d wished his dream wouldn’t end and now that it was over he found himself in a nightmare.

  He scanned the distance for other boats but there were none. He prayed to God for a sign regarding all that had befallen him but all he got were answering seagulls. Clouds rumbled and cast darkness upon the horizon. The once clear blue waters reflected the turmoil of the Grey sky and he found himself afraid.

  Fear, like a thousand fingers made of ice touched his back and ran the length of his spine. Soon the waves carried his boat high, water sloshed within the boat and he held on to the side and prayed for help but all he got in answer was thunder and rain.

  The rain patted him as if seeking to console him and the ocean roared as his boat swayed. He thought about his wife, sweet Mirabel. Well, she had been sweet before he married her, ever cautious around him these days as if the slightest things would set him off. He’d fallen in love with her soul and now he’d fallen out of love with her body. She was grotesque, her face scared him instead of calm him. There was always pleading about her eyes, as if she needed something of his that he could no longer give.

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  Yet as the storm raged it was her face he came back to, before the wedding, before he became aware of the lines etched across her face, tagging at the edge of her lips and eyes. She reminded him of something, age and how it was catching up to him. His beard was once brown now streaked with grey, he had shaved it off time and time again to the point where he’d nicked himself numerous times but that didn’t stop the grey from spreading to his hair and armpits.

  He closed his eyes and knew he was lost to sea, starvation and thirst would claim him if the behemoths that dwelt beneath the surface didn’t get to him first. He buried himself amidst his nets, willing them to wrap around his feet so as to prevent him being throne overboard. He cradled himself, made himself small and God did he feel small. Minute, like a spark that would flash once and fade forever into silence.

  And he thought about Mirabel, standing at their door to a house that wasn’t a manor. A house without servants and without anyone who wished to offer any service that would make him feel important. No, it was only ever Mirabel. He would miss and her and without knowing he was weeping, whispering her name time and time again as thunder flashed.

  His eyes closed, his exhaustion from fear got the better part of him. He was sinking, believing himself to already be in the ocean and not in his boat. He sunk and there was darkness that welcomed him and deeper into it he went knowing there would never be anything that might remind him of light.

  Then silence.

  A gentle tap on his shoulder and he opened his eyes. One of the fishermen was beside him, within his boat. He looked around, somehow he’d fallen asleep and the waves had brought him back to shore. The fisherman asked how he was doing. He didn’t answer, he observed the water, comforted by the bottom wet sand that graced his sight.

  “I have to go to Mirabel.” Were the only words he spoke. He launched himself out of his boat and swam his way home. He had to see her again, her face was the only comfort he knew.

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