I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sight more captivating: yep a moonlit night in Malibu, the soft glow of the moon against the backdrop of the light coastal fog, the silvery reflection of shimmering moonlight on the ripples of the gentle Pacific, the soothing tone of the surf caressing the deserted beach; deserted except for the soul whose foot tracks marred the otherwise silky smooth and moist sand. Just an ordinary night for most, but this lost soul thought, rather, felt otherwise. There was something magical, something unreal, something haunting about this place, this time.
Maybe it was the smell of the brisk sea breeze or the thick humid air, which he always seemed to choke on, or perhaps the sad memories it brought to mind. The memory of the girl who had rejected his love, TWICE! But that was nothing new. He was used to rejection. Had grown up with it all of his life. He’d learned from experience, hadn’t he?
“Always plan for everything.”
“Be prepared for anything.”
“If you expect the worst to happen, anything else could only be cause for relief.”
“Build a wall around yourself …if you don’t let anybody in, they can’t hurt you” (but they can’t love you either, a nagging voice in the back of his head reminded).
Rules, rules, and more rules; just part of his compulsive personality; the same personality that forced him to go up a size in jeans every year for as long as he could remember; the same personality that tortured him when people would scoff at “convention” during a friendly game of gin. And oh so many other things that unnerved him so.
What ‘IT’ was he didn’t know, but its effect was only too evident. This late night in August somehow grabbed a hold of his heart and drew him closer into the mist. The moisture against his face felt refreshing, yet numbing at the same time. He began to take notice of his body hair, how odd that it should be standing on end in this warm summer night.
But, everything about this night was odd: The churning feeling in his stomach, the intermittent bursts of cold sweat across his brow, and most of all a discernible increase in his heartbeat. It is said that fat men can sweat even if they are asleep, but he knew from experience this was just an exaggerated old wives’ tale.
No, this feeling had nothing to do with his weight, height, eye color or any other physical feature. It was something embedded deep inside him. A monster it seemed was sick of confinement and wanted out. A monster that would soon get its wish. As if possessed, he walked out to the ocean. He wasn’t happy or sad; truthfully, he didn’t seem to feel any emotion. The time for emotions had come and gone.
Emotions were such useless inefficient things that always got in the way, and he didn’t need any distractions. He gently waded in the surprisingly warm sea. His wet clothes, which probably weighed a ton made no more impression on his skin than did the rough scaly leaves of kelp he’d managed to drag out on his bare limbs. As he made his way toward the horizon, he sliced open the shimmering reflection of moonlight, and just as he’d earlier marred the barren beach sand, he tainted the once perfectly calm water. Soon the soft glow would return to the sea and the depressions in the sand filled. Soon perfection would triumph.
-Originally written 8/5/1993
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