Not all demons can swim

Written in response to The Creative Writing Inks, weekly writing prompt competition, October 6th:

http://www.creativewritingink.co.uk/resources/writing-prompts/

vlad-chernolyasov-397358

 

People think a home needs to have walls, a roof, a friendly little lacquered door with a number written in gold metal. They think light switches and windows are enough along with a mattressed bed: is a home. That is not home for me. Not there. Home is where one feels welcome. Where one feels free to cry and laugh and be who they are truly. I cannot be like that, in the place they would classify as my ‘home’. That place is not home and I don’t care who tries to tell me otherwise, that place hurts, even the walls sob with misery of what they have born witness to; over and over again, bowing under the weight of their horribly painted consciences . No. Not there. Not ever.

No, this, is home. I have a friend here, one who shelters me and lets me cry and laugh and talk and be me. This pier is my home. We bring gifts for eachother, leaves of the land, for shells of the sea, left on the pier to exchange. I will sleep, hand being rocked by the waves, held lovingly by my friend. Sometimes I bring my problems, whisper them, and he responds; wipes my tears, treasuring them and then takes my problems away, swallowing them whole along with the tears. For you must understand: he is my friend now, he offers solace and peace in a place full of demons.

Who is he? Who is he? You are but a young girl! If these thoughts echo your head, I understand why, but I trust him, and for my sake, so should you. Or else.

It is early morning now and we sit. The mist of dreams, rolls in and out. Thickening thinning, churning broiling and swirling around, dancing in stunning randomness. The wind is faint, slowly teasing hairs from around my face, while the gulls swoop in  the pale fog, appearing from nowhere and disappearing again. This relationship I have with him has built up. From gifts to stories. Stories to problems. Now problems to secrets. I whisper him my truth of home. His eyes break to stormy waters at the secret from the calm shores they once bore, his face rippling in emotion, rippling waves to thoughts. He answers, hushed and soft like the lapping waters. I act upon his words, hopefully.

I am now, no longer tied to a false home. I already told you, I brought him my problems. That is all I did. I threw them and he engorged. He devoured and destroyed them. Murder set on his many teeth as he drowned my problems.

My god drowned my demons. My mortal demons, who couldn’t swim. He is my friend, my lord of the sea and liberator of demons.

I lay by the side of the pier and pray my thanks, dangling my hand in the water to hold his hand.

 

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