It arrived at her parent's home in a green envelope, with the words 'Do not bend' written in the corner. He sent her the picture, the one that caught her rare smile. Her white shirt was blowing in the wind, and she was trying to brush away the locks of her unruly hair from her face. They were laughing in the picture. His copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy was lying open next to them; the camera had caught the pages swaying to the tune of the salty sea breeze.
She knew where the bookmark had been. There are some things she cannot forget. There are some things she did not want to forget.
She could taste the salty sea breeze, or was it an errant tear? “Come with me,” he had said all those years ago. “I’ll build you a beach house and we can stay there.”
She laughed: “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Had a wife but couldn’t keep her.”
“Come with me,” he insisted. “I’ll keep you safe.”
On that beach she had a brief glimpse of happiness. A loss of the self… her mind was alive, and her skin awake. To be happy is to not worry about the unknown future. To know happiness is to know freedom. To experience it is to forget it all.
But happiness is ephemeral. Both freedom and happiness are shackled by the chains of restriction and consequence. After glimpsing happiness, there can be no going back. The world looks staid and stale. The happiness is gone. And the throbbing ache will never subside. No amount of codeine can numb the pain.
“What blame have I in thy nefarious life?” he had raged, as she ran away all those years ago.
On the back of the picture there was a summons. Meet me on the beach. You know which one, I’ll be there. Come with me.
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