The End

by Charlotte E Hart

  I smirk at the connotation of romance, flicking my eyes down to the beach and considering a walk there rather than the den I was thinking of moments earlier. Would that alleviate the ache she causes, or will it just further the pain?

  She makes the decision for me as I watch her begin walking towards the cliff steps to the sea, her footsteps as unhurried as the breeze she drifts through. It only takes one small glance from her and my stomach flips like a twelve-year-old’s, a wry smile attached to her nod towards the water below. The sensation both pisses me off and excites me, leaving me with little explanation for either. And then she’s off, her feet hurrying her along the frontage, her arms already unwrapping the top she has on.

  I climb out of the car, not sure whether to strap her up for using her own judgement on what she can do, or kiss her for challenging any discipline I have to offer her. The problem makes me frown as I slowly walk in her direction, the sand kicking off my shoes as I go and reminding me of my harmony here. Nature is always such a confusion. The fucking beast inside me might be desperate to initiate its desires, ones I’ve suppressed for too long, but it’s now being disordered with the juxtaposition of meaningful situations. Love, I assume.

  “I love you.” I mouth the words to myself slowly as I wander down the steps and watch her walk away at the bottom, wondering what the words mean. I do, though, on some level. Perhaps it’s an instinctual bond, something that tears the monotony of the ‘usual’ from my guts. Or perhaps it’s just that I can come in her, the action giving her a piece of me that few others have managed. Either way, it’s as real as she believes it is, regardless of my attempt to make her see otherwise. She knows, and she’s right. It started in that pool and has grown from there, whether I’ve tried to stop its path or not. It’s as rickety as these steps I traverse to get to her, and as dependable as the sea ebbing in front of me. Constant. Irreversible.

  “Are we going in?” she calls with a brief glimpse back at me as she carries on forward anyway. I’m not. The only time I go in is to try drowning myself in the heavy undertow, and today, for once, I don’t feel the need to bother. Today, and because of her, I feel like living and trying.

  My smile broadens as I realise I haven’t stopped smiling at her. Seeing her here, unbound and nearly unclothed, is freeing in some ways. It replaces the other memory of Eloise doing the same thing. She’d never been as animated as Alana is, her smile never as vibrant, but she did walk these beaches, too, alone, and never with me following her. She wanted to drown as much as I have since her, wanted the life sucking from her so she could forget it and move on to the next place, but nothing about the woman in front of me now wants to drown. She wants to be saved. Protected.

  The realisation makes me take my jacket off as I watch her feet getting closer to the water’s edge, my shirt buttons quickly following as I quicken my steps a little. Panic begins to race up my own throat, anxiety. I feel it quickening my guts, making my heart speed up, too, as I frown at her knees being lapped by the water she’s crashing into.

  “Don’t go in any further,” I shout. What the fuck am I thinking? She must be able to swim or she wouldn’t be so stupid. Regardless, my hands begin to grab at my belt, unbuckling it to get to her. “Alana, don’t go too deep.” It’s too late, and the wind blowing in the wrong direction, casting the words back at me rather than towards her, means she can’t hear anyway. The vision increases the anxiety ebbing inside of me as I watch her discarded clothes flutter by in the wind, making me walk faster to the water regardless of the fact my trousers are still in place.

  The waves keep coming as I zone in on her form and watch her swim out into them. They’re small by the coast, nothing to be concerned about, but I know these waters like the back of my hand. The current is strong, devastating in some circumstances. I’ve swum in them enough, letting the undertow take me further out or surge me into the cliff’s face.

  “Come back in,” I shout. Nothing comes back at me but the sound of light laughter drifting through the air. “Don’t go out too far,” I call instead, hoping that will make a difference to her continued splashing around. It doesn’t; she just keeps swimming on, occasionally diving under the water and disappearing only to pop back up again in the spray. And the fucking panic keeps coming, too, making me feel sick, something I’ve never felt before. It yanks at my guts, making them cringe in fear.

  I look down, distracted by something, and realise I’m knee deep in the shoreline. It makes me laugh as I toe my shoes off and let them drift away, not caring for their demise. The woman out there is of more concern, the one who’s asked me to save her. But when I look up again to find her, she’s gone. I wait for a few seconds, expecting to see her bob up again, but she doesn’t. The odd sense of sickness forms as bile, my throat almost strangling me as I wade out deeper, dragging the water with my fingers, to search for her in the cresting spray.

  “Alana,” I yell, the ground beneath me starting to disappear as the waves pull back and forth. I tread water for a second, watching and waiting. “Alana?” Nothing still, so I swim towards the last place I saw her, my trousers tugging me in the swell. Fuck. Panic grips harder, making my arms speed through the water to get to where she was. And then when I get there, there’s still nothing but the rise and fall of the waves, my body being battered about within them. I dive straight down to search below, grabbing out at anything that looks vaguely solid, but nothing sinks into my hand other than more water, so I break the surface again, immediately searching for her as I shout her name over and over again. Where the fuck is she? I won’t have another death on my hands. I can’t. One was enough, and that was someone I didn’t love. I’ll fucking kill myself trying to save this one rather than live without her.

  I look back at the beach again, checking the shoreline in case she’s been washed up, but there’s nothing there either. True fear grips, making me drag in a huge lungful of air before diving straight back down again, hands grasping like mad, clawing at anything in the hope of finding her. It’s just a sea of fucking murk, nothing presenting itself other than more waves and crashing breaks. I struggle against it, pushing through the gloom, for once wishing for clear fucking water rather than this obscurity that I linger in so often, and then finally my fingers grasp at flesh, heaving it upwards as I kick to the surface to eventually break through it.

  “Fuck,” I splutter out, yanking her frame to me to find her face. Her hair is slathered across it, half of it embedded in her mouth as I tug it out of the way and wrap her into my hold to keep us both aloft. Fuck, fuck. I tuck her in, my hand instantly slapping at her cheek to wake her or try to get her to cough out the water. Nothing happens; her body just lies limply alongside mine as the waves crest again and nearly take us both under. Fuck. I grab tighter, gripping her so hard I might break her. I couldn’t give a fuck. I’d rather broken than dead. I’m getting her back to the shore, making her breathe again, broken or not. I’ll fucking crush her ribcage to start her lungs again if I have to because I’m not losing this before it starts. I’m not losing her.

  “Alana?” I shout, spluttering out the cold water as I gulp in salt. “Jesus Christ.” Still no answer to stop the bile wanting to launch from my guts. Nothing at all other than a lifeless form being towed, as I pull for all I’m worth to get us both back to dry ground.

  The moment my feet touch the sand, I run with her, her body becoming heavier the moment the water falls away. It makes me trip, her near naked form slipping from my hold and tumbling onto the ground. It’s enough, though, just enough for her mouth to be above water, which spurs me over to her, my hands already tipping her chin up and opening her mouth as I lower my ear to her face. I can hardly hear anything over the waves that keep coming and slapping my back, certainly not breath, so I hit at her face again, hoping to wake her out of her daze. Nothing happens but her head lolling sideways, her hair slicking the sand as she turns.

  “You’ll fucking wake up,” I snap, as my hand moves down to her chest, the other follow
ing to start pumping the water out of her. One, two, three, four, five into her ribcage, and then my chest moving across her to breathe into her lips. Nothing but my breath blowing her own chest upwards happens, so I do it again and again, repeating the move until fear and fury made me slap at her again. She just lies there, her lax body being washed around in my hold by the sea. “Alana?” Nothing. I start it all again, furiously pumping her chest in the hope that I can bring her back to life. She just has to breathe. Just one breath. One breath followed by another. I can feel it happening inside my own body, huge lungfuls being pulled in as if I can somehow give them to her. My lips wrap over hers as if it’s the first time I’ve kissed her, blowing the breath in hard until I’ve got nothing left inside me to give. Still nothing. No movement. I bind my hands into her hair, tugging at it and leaving my lips where they are, covering hers until my own soften into a kiss. Tears travel through me. She can’t die, not here, not yet. We haven’t started yet. We’ve got so much to see together, so much to do now that I’ve found her. Rage wells again at the thought of loss, my body rising away from her to gaze at her lifeless form, which forges my hands to pick her head up and knock it against the sand, shaking her and shouting her name. And then another slap, her face tumbling away from the contact.

  “Fuck you, Alana,” I shout, my hand hitting her face again, and again, fear and terror charging my body for a firmer hit. “I love you. Wake the fuck up.”

  Still nothing but a lifeless body, one I clamber over, my knees either side of her as I pull her up into my hold and clasp her into me. And real tears come then. They fall from my eyes, anger or dread, defeat maybe, sending them into her hair as I hold her close and begin rocking. Fuck you. It repeats itself over and over, causing me to become so infuriated violence rages. My hands grip her so tightly I feel her muscles grate against each other, bones constricting on themselves. I love you. That keeps coming, too, ‘fuck you’ and ‘I love you’ continually swirling as my lips rest on her forehead, hoping for an answer.

  No, it’s not happening. I push her body away from me, back to the sand again, my fingers finding her breastbone and beginning to drive downwards again as I stare at her closed eyes. “Fuck you, wake up.” I pump again, my mouth descending the moment I’ve finished the compressions. And then again, and again, and again until I hit her chest cavity in fury, vehemence fuelling the move. She instantly twitches, the muscles in her chest heaving and forcing another movement. So I turn her, pushing on her ribcage at the same time, hoping to force the water out and up her windpipe somehow. And then comes the cough; she sputters it out, water spurting out of her lips as her hand moves a little. Fuck you. I snarl the thought, still infuriated with her, or myself, or whoever’s fucking fault this is as I stare at her coughing it up.

  “Get it out,” I yell at her, my hand still hitting her back as I hold her on her side.

  She does, repeatedly, her body convulsing as she rolls onto her front and braces her hands up to help the water fall out of her. And then she sucks in a breath, her mouth open wide as she heaves and I watch her lungs inflate. It’s all I can hear, the sound of her pulling in breath after breath dispersing the noise of the waves, nullifying the wind still battering around us.

  I back away and rest on my knees, giving her room to do as she needs, not sure if I should hold her close or beat the shit out of her for petrifying me. The sensation’s worse than it was with Eloise. It isn’t fear of guilt or reprisal this time; it’s sheer terror associated with the loss of her, something that drives me inwards for fear of what that means to us, to her. I just kneel and watch, a sneer developing at the sight as my heart continues to thunder away inside. Fuck you, still. She’s done this, wound this up, made me feel emotional, and in doing so has drawn us closer together than I want us to be. I’m not worth it. She’s worth more than me. So much more.

  Eventually I get up, choosing to keep my mouth shut rather than announce anything as I begin walking away from her. She can fucking stay there, learn from her own mistake, chastise herself for her stupidity. And then I stop and turn back to look down at her instead, still unfinished with whatever it is that I’m trying not to say.

  “Fuck you,” I shout, my fucking hand wiping hair from my face. She looks up, her body still heaving in air and coughing out water. “What the fuck was that?” She looks down again, her eyes searching the sand for something as she braces herself, purple fucking stripes falling around her too fucking beautiful face. Maybe she’s looking for answers down there. Who fucking knows? “Don’t ever go in that fucking water again, do you understand?” She coughs again, her head only nodding a response as I start pacing around in front of her, barely able to contain my own fury. “You scared the shit out of me.” Another nod as she tries to sit back, her body wavering around the move. I rush forward, reaching for her before I get around to controlling the fucking impulse. “Jesus Christ, Alana,” I snarl, grabbing at her body and hauling it up into my arms for fear she’ll drift out into the ocean again. “Are you trying to kill me?” She snorts, another rally of coughs following the sound as she grabs onto my neck. The sound makes me feel like dumping her back onto the sand again, leaving her there to wallow in her misadventure, scare herself by it, hopefully teaching her a valuable lesson in safety at the same time. Fucking stupid bitch.

  “There was a wave…” she attempts.

  “Keep it fucking closed until I calm down,” I cut in, still struggling with the concept of dropping her, drowning her, or fucking any breath she’s regaining out of her. Fucking woman. Fucking emotions. I fucking hate it all. Other people do this shit, not me. I walk on, muttering and snarling, grabbing her closer, furious with myself for the need to. “You’re this close to getting the beating of your life.”

  She nods again, trembling a little in my hold as we cross over the beach towards the steps. Good. She should be trembling. She should be frightened for her fucking life, terrified, because now I’ve felt that, now I’ve sensed the fear associated with her leaving me, there’s nothing stopping me from taking this exactly where I want it to go. Whether she wants it or not. She’s not going anywhere, not until I’ve had my fill of her.

  Chapter 4

  Alana

  I ’ve been dumped on a black leather couch in a room I’ve never been in. He didn’t once put me down as he struggled with keys, nor did he release me as he went and found a towel to wrap around me. He only let go when we got in here, at which point he almost threw me at this leather I’m sitting on, huddled and freezing cold. He then proceeded to glare at me for a few minutes, watching as I fidgeted about trying to get comfortable under his gaze, and then he left me alone. No words, no conversation, and most definitely no compassion or love. He’s pissed, furious even. I don’t know why. It’s not like he’s the one who nearly died, or is still coughing up salty water. If anyone’s supposed to be angry, surely it’s me. I mean, he could have told me the undertow was too strong to swim in. No one should be swimming in that water. It’s beyond dangerous.

  I stare out at it through the floor to ceiling French windows, watching its persistent crash against the shoreline I was on a while ago. It drives its crests at the beach like a torrent, not giving a damn for anything that gets in its way or the effect it has. What was I thinking? I could have died out there. Although, it didn’t look like that when I went in, or it didn’t seem to at the time. Now, though, it looks like a living, breathing rage of hatred as it batters the sand and cliffs. Beautiful maybe, no doubt about that, but certainly not for swimming. It was alive, full of malicious intent and doing nothing other than exposing its power over me, proving my limited ability within its arms ineffective.

  The sight makes me huddle further into my towel, peeling off my soaked underwear underneath it and trying to get some more warmth into my bones. I’m so cold, and this room doesn’t help. Doesn’t he have anything in this house with any comfort attached to it? It’s all so barren. Neat, yes, but sparse, as if it’s been deliberately kept to feel cold and
unwelcoming. The house in Manhattan wasn’t like this. It felt homely, cosy even, short of its lack of furniture. This place, though, especially this room and the other one I was in when I was here last time, is nothing but walls and a few basic pieces. Large plain, light grey walls, built in cupboards lining one side of the room, another cupboard on the other and then this modern couch I’m on. No curtains. No frills. Only what I suppose are necessities.

  “Put these on,” his voice says. It makes me jump a little and turn to look at him as he walks in and throws what seems to be a tracksuit at me. “They’ll be too big, but they’ll have to do until Tabitha gets here.” Tabitha? Great.

  “I could do with a bath,” I reply, knowing that no amount of blankets or clothes are going to warm me through.

  “No. You’ll suffer the consequence of your actions in here.”

  “What?”

  “You’re damn lucky you’re not doing it from your knees, Alana. Put the fucking clothes on.”

  I frown at him, wondering what’s made him so mad, as I slowly unfold the towel from around me.

  “Why are you so angry?” I ask quietly, slipping my arms into the hoodie and then beginning to put the bottoms on. “It’s not like it was you who nearly drowned.”

  “Rather than question me again, perhaps a fucking thank you would be nice for a start?” Oh, haven’t I said that? Shit. The thought makes me look back at him, really look for a second or two rather than just remember what happened out there. His brow’s furrowed, his hair still wet, the trousers on his body still soaked. He hasn’t even changed or dried himself yet. He’s that furious that he can’t even feel the cold in his own bones. I tilt my head at him, trying to hear what he’s thinking about, but as usual there’s just a wall of nothing looking back at me.