The Passed Note Issue 8 October 2018 - Page 48

He had only ever seen one storm this bad, the day his father left him in one and driven away. It had been the beginning of a string of foster homes, the beginning of heartbreak, the beginning of the end.

He reached for the stone in his pocket, the one with a heart drawn on it by a child’s hand, his promise to himself of his own love even if no one else wanted him. But the stone wasn’t in his pocket.

He kept running. She didn’t deserve to be forgotten too.

He broke through the trees and stumbled onto shifting sand. The water of the bay was shining silver like mercury, churning and tumbling as if some great sea creature was about to tear free. His heartbeat was consumed by the storm. Shaking, crashing, flashing.

He had to find her, because he knew now. Or he knew a little. He had gone to that town a couple hours away, as she had offhandedly suggested when he’d asked why she’d suddenly appeared in these parts. He had found the graves. He had heard the story.

There she was. A dark figure, black on silver, out on the rocky point that closed in the bay. Out where the storm raged with its full force.

He began barreling through the rain, dragging his feet through the clumping sand. He could barely keep his eyes open, and held one arm in front of his face to ward off the needles of rain.

The wind was sprinting back and forth, changing its direction in each moment as if trying to hit him from every angle. The rain didn’t seem to ever reach the ground.