I feel good about this idea Chapter I
The sound of the torrential rain drowned everything on the beach. Nature’s own unconquerable white noise, it condemned the out-of-place figure of the man slumped face down into the sand; he was almost invisible in the early night. He was already soaked but the rain added to this, every drop punching him closer to consciousness.
The beach was deserted. It was cold, wet and late; why would anyone from the sleepy nearby village be out? And tonight seemed darker than usual nights, or at least my oppressive and ominous. The villagers had shut themselves away early, to hide in their warm houses with their electric lights. The only soul on the beach was the man.
He finally returned to consciousness, and at once was coughing and retching sea water from his mouth. Only after any water was gone and only dry spasms racked his body as he retched did he attempt to get a sense of awareness.
This awareness didn’t come: He could feel the rain peppering his soaked body and the wet sand that he was lying on, and could see lights in the far distance, but that was it.
His fat stomach was pressing against something uncomfortable, but he was too exhausted to move and was content to lie there with his mouth tasting of seawater.
Eventually, when he had regained a sense of control over his body he tried to remember how he’d arrived on this beach, but came up empty. Never mind, there would be time for that later. When he knew where he was. When he knew that he wasn’t going to die.
Was he going to die? The ugly thought tore through his head for the first time. Even as weakened, exhausted and broken as he was the idea made him clutch the sand that little bit more desperately, as though it would save him from the darkness all around. Death. No more.
He grimaced once, and then made his first attempt at heaving himself forward. An excruciating pain shot up his right leg like lightning, he screamed, his face contorted in agony. Seawater dribbled pathetically out of his mouth as one heaving sob racked his body.
“Your leg’s fucked, friend.” The voice was English and gravelly, managing to cut through the sound of the rain and into the mind of the man who could not move. He let out another wordless sob.
“That’s not gonna help, Craig. Yeah, I know your name.” More words came out of the rain as the man squatted down next to Craig, his head bowed and his expression slightly pained. “Speaking of help, though…I can help.”
Craig coughed and spluttered as the man spoke, finally managing to ask hopefully:
“You’re gonna take me to a hospital?”
“No, Craig, the hospital is not where you’re headed.” The man smiled sadly.
“Where am I…where am I headed?” asked Craig, rain streaming down his already
soaking face. The man exhaled dejectedly before replying, as he had a thousand times,
“You, friend, are headed for happiness.” Steeling himself, he began to work the mark over. That’s what it was; he tried to tell himself, a mark. Not a person. A mark.
“Let’s be honest, Craig, who really cares about you? I mean really, really would give a shit if I left you here tonight? Honestly?” He stopped thinking. Let his pre-rehearsed arguments show Craig – or trick Craig into thinking – how empty his life was. It was easy. It always was. This was what he was good at, and it was that, that hurt him so much…though of course he deserved it.
“It’s true…you’re right, it’s true!” whimpered Craig, his blubbering tears mixing with the rain on his face.
The man squatting next to him exhaled once again before continuing.
“Craig…I’m here to offer you a way out. You can have whatever you want, I mean absolutely anything that you desire, in return for one thing.”
“Anything…anything” mumbled Craig pathetically.
“Your soul, Craig. I need you to give me your soul.”
“So what are you…the Devil?” Craig whined, suddenly fearful.
“No. I’m a friend,” began the crouching man wistfully, “now, Craig…yes or no?”
He felt tired. As Craig made his final decision the man stood up and felt the exhaustion in every fibre of his body, and the hollow loneliness in his chest.
“Yes…” said Craig quietly, “yes.”
The man crouched back down and drew out what looked like a small inhaler from the pocket of his dirty jacket. And suddenly he could almost feel the darkness of the night pressing in on him, and the rain desperately attempting to wash him off the face of the earth. He felt his lip curl in self-hatred and contempt even as he said the words:
“Breathe into this.”
With much effort, Craig managed to turn his head enough to fasten on to the little instrument like a child sucking on his thumb.
“Breathe.” Murmured the crouching man as in face creased up in this familiar feeling.
“Murderer” his own mind whispered back at him, as he could almost sense the light in Craig’s eyes going out.
Craig stopped breathing.
“Craig?” asked the crouching man pointlessly. He exhaled, seeing the air condense before him.
Turning his head up into the rain, he felt the stars’ gaze upon him, and began to cry.
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