Edge of The World

The sound of the waves thundered. The thud of the water rushed the foot of the cliff, reverberating beneath my feet. The wind howled all around me, it’s sound just bearable, almost deafening. And then I heard it. It’s screams, warning me to turn back around, not to go any further forward. But I could not go back. The only way back was below, into the depths of the ocean and I had already spent far too much time there. Hiding. It was time to walk forward.

 

All was dark before me, around me. It was impossible to see where I was, but sight was an irrelevant sense, for I already knew where I stood. I could feel the odd familiarity pervade my being. I stood atop one of the many colossal cliffs at Land’s End in Cornwall; the edge of the world.

 

I walked forward, the loose rocks and eroded soil crunching beneath my feet. Icy cold rain droplets touched my skin. I shuddered and felt the uncomfortable sensation of goose bumps forming on my exposed arms. Within moments, the Heavens opened and the pitterpat of the raindrops graduated to a cacophony of typical British torrential rain. I was immersed in the storm, but my head was finally clear. I walked forward, not knowing why. There was just that inexplicable feeling that I had to, that there was something that I was supposed to see; something I had to see.

 

I could feel myself getting closer to my destination and my hands trembled. This time, it was not merely the harsh cold of the storm. I shook from trepidation, for what was to come. I knew what I was sensing.

 

Them.

 

A sliver of moonlight offered a reprieve from the thick darkness that had enveloped me since I’d found myself at this place. And, then I saw what I had been led towards; before me stood ruins; five foot high stone blocks that appeared to have once been some sort of shelter, some sort of home. But, they had long lost their former glory; the erosion was severe and had debilitated the building into nothing more than ruins. Walking amongst them were my family; my mother, stepfather and my siblings.

 

“Why are these here?” my voice penetrated through the overbearing sounds of the storm.

 

My mother and stepfather turned towards me suddenly, their eyes black and hollow without sentiment.

 

“This is what you did. You put these here,” my mother told me, in a clipped, matter of fact tone. There was no room for further questions, for argument with the way she delivered her words. There was only fact, according to the way she saw it.

 

Their accusations continued, inundating me with words so fast, so aggressive, so strong that my senses were overwhelmed. I couldn’t hear all that they were saying, but I understood more than enough. It was our family that lay in ruins. And, according to them, it was because of me, my responsibility, my doing. I could only stare, my eyes studying the two of them, diverting from them to the ruins. Contemplating their words, I glanced at the cross hanging at my neck. It glowed from the moonlight that danced over it. I clutched at it, forcing myself to remember what was real. The truth. I held my faith close to my heart. It was something that I’d learned to do, that I’d had to learn, because of them. Because of what they’d done. Yes, what they had done. Not me. Their accusations were lies.

 

I turned my back and studied the ruins before me. It was not their form, their substance that I studied. It was the questions that their existence posed. Could they be repaired? And, more pertinent a question was, did I want to repair them?

 

Suddenly, my mother’s hand was upon my shoulder. I spun to face her, and her appearance had changed. Her eyes had reverted back to their wholesome baby blue shade; her touch was gentle, as was her expression. The woman who stood before me was the image of the mother I had once believed in years ago. It was a powerful image, but I knew it wasn’t real. And, as she reached out her hand to touch mine, to draw me into her embrace, a sharp pain shot through my hand. I ripped it from her grip, instinctively to protect myself. I glanced at my palm, and it was bleeding from a deep gash. Her mere touch had caused me to bleed.

 

And, then I remembered. This woman before me was not my protector, my nurturer. She’d made that decision when she’d turned her back on me. The knock-on-effects of her betrayal on the family now stood before of us, for all of us to see. The ruins. She’d left me out in the cold, and ripped my life right out from under me, causing me not only to stumble, but to crash to my knees for years afterwards.

 

Until now.

 

“Does it hurt?” she asked me, her voice a distant echo, as she glanced at my hand. Her concern was believable, but not genuine.

 

But, as deep as the gash was, as much as my hand bled, there was no pain. The time had passed where she could hurt me. Things were different now and as much as they tried to convince me otherwise with their accusations, I knew it. She was no longer my enemy, but she was also no longer my mother. The bond of blood between us was something I could not deny, as it was nature itself, but I could offer forgiveness, but not forgetfulness.

 

“You need to fix these,” my stepfather demanded aggressively, gesticulating towards the ruins.

 

He stomped towards me, and I felt the ground move from the power of his angry footsteps. His demeanor emanated nothing short of a hostile threat. His intention? As usual, to intimidate and possibly harm me into doing things his way. My mother stepped back, as I had suspected she would.

 

But as he reached me, I was not afraid.

 

He repeated his demand, raising his voice an octave and adding a couple of demeaning expletives. It was a familiar scene. But, it was also different, because this time I knew he couldn’t hurt me. A smile played across my lips as the realization beset me. And, as I saw him raise his hand, with the intention to bring it down towards me, I felt my own hand shoot out in defense. It connected with his chest and propelled him backwards with an inexplicable, almost effortless power. He crashed into one of the ruined blocks and it crumbled under his weight.

 

“I can’t fix what was meant to be broken,” I told them all.

 

And finally, they were silent and still as they looked upon me. It was then that I knew they saw what I felt; I was no longer part of them. I was no longer a member of the family, just a visitor from afar. I didn’t belong here.

 

The truth was that I never had.

 

Her actions all those years ago had caused me great grief and suffering. For a long time I had lost my way, deducing that I had belonged with them and had lost that home. But, they were not my roots. That home had never been mine.

 

Time was, I had prayed for the opportunity that now stood before me. I could repair the damage. I could fix the ruins. I could sense my family urging me to do so, to step forward and make it right.

 

But, I already knew what was right.

 

I looked at my mother, studying her and sensing her desire that I do as my stepfather had commanded. But the time for orders and doing what was best for them was past. They offered me nothing. I would not let myself get sucked back in. I’d fought too hard. I’d come too far.

 

The past was just that. And, for the first time in years, it had no bearing on my future.

 

I held my hand up to the rain, beseeching it to wash away the blood that still oozed from my palm. I watched as it washed away into nothing, as though the bronze-red laceration had never existed.

 

And then, I turned on my heel and walked away. I heard the thunder of the remainder of the ruins crash to the ground, but I did not turn around. I knew there was nothing left behind me. Almost instantaneously, the storm ceased and the clouds parted, allowing the sun its return to the day. I looked out over the ocean and all was serene and clear.

 

I stood there, at the edge of the world, and I smiled.

 

At last. I was free. 

Reviews

[Taylor H.]

This was majorly intense! I loved it! This was really good. I have nothing bad to say about it. You are a great writer.

[ba_mcfarlane]

I don't know that I can do you justice with a review. This one got personal for me. Too much, I saw my son, and for years the pain, the anger with his estranged mother. If I had known where I was going to be taken, I would not have started. Then again, writing it personal, that's not half bad, that's damned good.

[J.L Hunter]

Hello. You know, amidst the crowd of aspiring writers, and paragraphs and paragraphs of less than appealing words thrown together in semblance of style that only seem childish, there are a few writers whom through their words the reader can tell they mean it. What I mean is no silly vampire-love-triangle-sparkly-teenage stuff.

This is definitely not one of those stories, and you are most likely not one of those whimsical writers. I can tell. I read a lot and I write a lot, mostly crap (on both sides I have to admit) but some glimmers of hope still seep through. I'm not sure if the metaphorical references were intentional, but they seem to pour not only out of your own writing and experiences but my own. That is what the key to good writing is about. Understanding the reader, although you don't know them, you know people.

Anyways, I rate this a 90, because of some overuse of commas (yes that can be a bad thing despite what your English teacher may say; it is good for essays, bad for stylistic fiction) and free-roaming adjectives. Or as Tarzan would say, "Word use good, adjective bad!" Although I did notice you refrained from the evil adverb.

Thank you, and as always, keep up the good writing. -J.L Hunter