Low Tide

Ian Pollard

Low Tide

The screaming is getting louder; the voices won't stop. The devil
himself is controlling my body. I am a puppet being played at his
mercy. The need for relief is too great, the choice no longer mine. The
needle pierces my discoloured skin - I don't notice. As the fire rages
through my body I feel the heat penetrate my very soul. The voices cry
no longer. The waves crashing and pounding against my body begin to
recede. A minute, maybe an hour passes. Low tide.

The ocean waves - as evil as they are beautiful, left the rock they
had been smashing, pulled away by an invisible yet controlled force.
The waters calmed, their bubbly froth remaining on the damp sand. One
large jagged rock became visible, its movement out to sea restricted by
the lack of power in the receding water. The rock stood alone -
isolated. The water would return. The rock just had to wait. Low
tide.

I am at peace. My whole body is tingling - the pleasure indescribable.
Where I am now I am safe. No one can harm or touch me again. My mind is
in a passage. It is warm and I am comfortable but I cannot make out any
shapes. The passage is a blur but I know I am alone. I am drifting
slowly and smoothly. Dreams can be nice and this one is.
I try to move my arm but can't. I have lost - or someone else has
taken - control of my body. I open my eyes and the world bounces around
me. The room spins and circles me, protecting me. Faintly I can feel
spittle sliding on to my chin. It doesn't bother me. I don't care. Low
tide.

The tide is fully out, the bare beach left naked and vulnerable. Under
the intense heat of the sun the rock is completely dry. The sky is
clear blue with no distinction between it and the sea. It is a lovely
warm day. The few wisps of clouds are far away. The wind will bring
them back. Low tide.

The tingling of my body has stopped. I know what this means and fear
what this means. I can feel my hands and wriggle my toes. My bodily
functions are returning and I am becoming aware of where and who I am.
I must enjoy the last few moments of this peace.
Something powerful grabs me. It is a darkness; thick and endless from
which there is no escape. Everything now is black and I feel nothing. I
know I have passed out. Low tide.
Over the tranquil beach the wind has picked up speed. Its strength has
heaved back the clouds and the tide is crawling back in - rapidly. The
storm clouds are brewing and there is electricity in the air. The waves
are large - descending on the rock. It starts to drizzle. Low
tide.

I am slowly coming round. I blink my eyes; once, twice and they are
open. The light startles me. My head is pounding and my throat is
dry.
I stand uncertain, spilling the last of the beer in a nearby can. I
stare at my left forearm. It is sore and red. Many puncture marks are
visible - some have scabbed over. I fall back onto the settee the world
falling with me. Something pricks my leg. The needle, dirty and empty
lies next to me. It is both my savour and my nemesis. Its juice - the
heroin - my lifeblood. I am a junkie and I hate my life and myself. I
am alone. Utterly alone.
Carefully and mechanically I move to the opposite side of the room. I
fall against the mirror, its glass smooth and cool to the touch. I
stare deep into my own soul. Who am I?
I remember back to when I was just a small girl of twelve years. Back
then my hair was long, straight and blond. My green eyes like ancient
emeralds. My grandma called me an angel. Now my eyes are like coal;
black and ugly. My hair is green and short. It hasn't been washed for a
fortnight. I slump against the wall, slowly sliding down onto the tiled
floor. I weep both for myself and at myself. Low tide.

The sky has gone from blue to grey to black. Thunder rumbles in the
distance. The tide is coming back in, the sea, eating up the sand
between it at the rock. The wind whistles maliciously. Low tide.

The flat is empty and for now I am by myself. I contemplate the
future, yet dare not look further than tonight. At seventeen years old
I should be having the time of my life. Tonight, when many girls will
visit their boyfriends or see their relatives or stay in to finish off
an assignment for college, where will I be? I will be here
with&;#8230;them. The men who use me. To them I am faceless,
inferior, at their service. I am nobody.
They are monsters. The thought of their breath, their touch,
their&;#8230;their&;#8230;it repulses me. It is because of these
people that I hate life and what it is. What can I do? I need the
money.
A cold single tear slides down my face. I stare at the cracked walls -
almost seeing myself in the weak crumbling bricks. The pounding in my
head is starting again. I cover my ears and put my head between my
knees. It won't go away. I feel as scared of the demons inside me as I
did of my stepfather. He started this. He killed the person I was the
night he beat my mother almost to death. After he abused me in a
different kind of way I left. By leaving I have probably killed my
mother.
The banging in my mind is like that of a thousand drums. My muscles
ache as though I am being struck. I know the face of my stepfather on
the wall is not real. Low tide.

The tide moves stealthily, aided by the storm. Lightening illuminates
the darkening sky and the rock is picked up by the waves and smashed
against the cliffs. Over and over again the waves crash into and around
the rock. Piece by piece it will eventually break. Low tide.

I stand shakily. A little girl appears before me. She is young and
beautiful. From nowhere she pulls a knife. Grinning accusingly at me,
she slits her own throat. She falls to her knees, the grin permanent as
her eyes glaze over. Blood oozes all over the floor, sticking to my
bare feet.
I scream, terrified, but she is gone. She was never there to begin
with. The thought of the warm breath and sweat of tonight's 'visitors'
fills my mind. I grab my own neck, attempting to squeeze the thought
from my mind.
I stumble back into the dark, filthy main room, falling heavily on the
sofa. Amidst the pain, for a moment my mind clears. I know what I have
to do. Low tide.

The rock is becoming weaker. It has been pounded for so long, so many
times that its strength is gone. One large wave pounds the rock against
the cliffs and it cracks open, then splits in half. The momentum of the
waves continues to crash the two pieces of rock together. Ironically,
the rock is now destroying itself. Low tide.

My arm is strapped and I start to cry. I have shed so many tears. I
scoop the pills off the broken table and swallow them dry, then plunge
the needle into my arm. The voices laugh at me. We both know they have
won. I was in a competition I had already lost. I had lost before I
started.
As the blackness crept once more towards me, I thought only of my
mother. I just hoped she could forgive me. I knew I would be safe soon.
I would be back with Daddy.
Darkness. Low tide.

As abruptly as the storm had started, it ended. As it moved offshore
there was no sight of the rock. It was broken. It no longer existed. It
was now part of the water. The sun came out to dry the cliffs. Low
tide.

The landlord of the flat found Helen Murphy's body later the same day
of her death. He had come to collect his 'rent'. The police concluded a
verdict of " suicide by extreme overdose". The case was quickly closed
and forgotten.
Only Helens mother, Jane attended her daughter's funeral.

The low tide glimmered offshore. Soon it would move in to attack the
cliffs. It would pluck off another rock. It would make it small,
vulnerable and alone. And then the low tide would destroy it. Nothing
would stop it. Nothing could stop it.
Low tide

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