I put the body in the corner. It was only decent. He was my friend. Or he was, before we argued. I found hammer and nails, and prepared a coffin. I had many skills, before the Mice came for me. They gnaw and they gnaw, and I cannot get warm. Never never. It is so cold here, on this blasted rock. Literally. The wind blows under the foundations, here we stand and face the rain… stood on stilts, in the teeth of the storms. It is thirty years since the King lost us America. I wish I had tea here, another means to keep warm. The light from my oil lamp casts shadows, and I fear the Mice will come back again.
In the corner is… It, the thing that used to be He. Griffiths, as was. I am Powell. I will always be. No power on Earth can take that from me. I write this letter by the lantern light… that is my salvation. The shadows leer and stretch and I feel their fingers on my back… crawling.
We had our differences, right enough. Put two grown men on a rock like this Smalls Lighthouse, and they will pick at each other over something. But now I fear, I fear my righteous conduct will not be recognised, and he must be kept secret.
I have prepared his little house, a sacred ark to take him away in the rising flood. The rain is lashing this trap, this prison, this house of God. I must… take him outside, welcome the elements. Those who read this will come, and I would have them know the truth. He must be in his house, to welcome them.
I struggle outside, resisting the wind, out on the gallery, where the great light still flashes. It glares on me as a great eye, while I try to do what is right. The only way. I have put his house outside of mine. I lash it with ropes, and trust to God. I retreat to my righteous prison. I hold the lamp, and watch the shadows. Then, there is a shift. A thump. The dreadful door of the little house I built opens, and the figure inside shifts, it points, as he did in life. It accuses forever. And I am white, I am statue, I may never move again.