What I Do

‘What I do’

I couldn’t see the sea, I was deep in the shelter of the path – what was left of it. Of course, I knew the sea was there; I could hear it, smell it, I could feel it.
We frequently trod the path, it was well known to us – we walked. Like fitness freaks, we walked. One eye on the step count – being sure to make that daily target. It was a well-worn path. Like so much in my life, it was eroding. Some days great chunks came lose and got lost. The relentlessness of the battering just wore it away. I knew that the time would come when there was no safe way through. I could feel the sides slipping away. I didn’t always know where the marsh stopped and the sea began. Some days there was no difference – the insatiable tide washed right over, marooning any who thought they knew better. Marooning those who had thought they could beat it. ‘It will only be a few inches – we can get through that’ – until they couldn’t – until they realised the full extent of the strength and determination. The lucky ones took shelter in the hut, with its warning notices and its invitation to stay until it was safe again. It smelt of piss and fear.
I miss-timed it one day. I thought I knew how to play the game. I ignored the warning signs, I saw it edging closer but, Canute like, I thought I could hold it back. I thought that I could hold back his anger. His anger that swept over me, the anger that was always there – I knew, I could sense it. It was inexorable, tidal. I was out of my depth. I could cower in the hut – waiting for the storm to pass. Cold, neglected and hungry; ‘what did you expect’ he spat ‘ keep to the rules or take the punishment’.
Or I could rise up. One side was the sea and the other was the marsh. Neither was safe – but straight ahead would be an option – I only had to wait for the tide to turn.
That night had been long. He had made me sit outside. Naked. That, he told me, would teach me.
Yes, it taught me; it taught me that I was no longer prepared to walk the path between sea and marsh, hoping to be saved. It’s not what I do. That morning I rose up and walked away from the dubious safety of the smelly shelter and found my footing on safer ground. The knife he carried had fitted easily into my hand and into his neck; the blood had mixed with the swirling water. He hadn’t expected me to turn against him and by the time he realised that murder is what I do it was too late – the tide had turned.