(no subject)
The 25th of May. His birthday. His 39th birthday in fact. How odd and strange. He'd arrived here the night of hi 38th. That fateful night, Guy come to tell him that they must leave that very evening. Escape from England, from the land he'd loved and worked for under the cover of secrecy and night. Only he hadn't defected, had he? He'd walked out his front door, away from his sons and his pregnant wife, and ended up here. Only that had been nine months before, not a year. Time worked differently here, Donald knew that. Yet on this day, the should-be anniversary of his defection; of his arrival, on this day it bothered him.
He'd saved a bottle of scotch. The last of his island gift from so many month before. Truthfully, he was surprised it had lasted this long. It sat between his legs unopened as he sat on a rock on the beach. He'd saved it for this day and now he found he didn't want to drink it.
Strange how these things worked. Always strange. Always a surprise to Donald; nothing ever planned or done on purpose. His life a series of events that had happened to him, the passive observer in his own existence.
The waves washed in on the shore, erasing the remains of a castle someone else had made. Bit by bit they beat at it, each wave softening the edges until it was just a mound, unrecognizable. Donald counted the waves silently. Every time he reached thirty-nine he'd start again. Still not opening the bottle. Still simply sitting and watching.
Life was like that, or at least his life seemed to be. He'd been a man with ideals and dreams, hope and aspirations. Stress had been the wave; that and the drink he supposed. But hadn't that come because of the stress and the worry? He didn't know anymore. All he knew was at some point he'd become like that castle. No longer recognizable for what he one was. Worn away until only the vaguest shape of what had once existed remained.
It wasn't what he wanted.
It had never been what he wanted.
He didn't know what he wanted to be anymore.
It was an anniversary in a way, and in another it was not. Either way he chose to look at it, the day served as a reminder. Of what he'd once been and what he could be again if he chose it.
If he could find the strength to choose it.
Donald didn't know how many times he had counted to thirty-nine when he stood. He left the beach, the unopened bottle in his hand. Left without knowing what this day would bring, or any other. He realized that in that he wasn't alone. Perhaps too late, but he finally did realize that.
He'd saved a bottle of scotch. The last of his island gift from so many month before. Truthfully, he was surprised it had lasted this long. It sat between his legs unopened as he sat on a rock on the beach. He'd saved it for this day and now he found he didn't want to drink it.
Strange how these things worked. Always strange. Always a surprise to Donald; nothing ever planned or done on purpose. His life a series of events that had happened to him, the passive observer in his own existence.
The waves washed in on the shore, erasing the remains of a castle someone else had made. Bit by bit they beat at it, each wave softening the edges until it was just a mound, unrecognizable. Donald counted the waves silently. Every time he reached thirty-nine he'd start again. Still not opening the bottle. Still simply sitting and watching.
Life was like that, or at least his life seemed to be. He'd been a man with ideals and dreams, hope and aspirations. Stress had been the wave; that and the drink he supposed. But hadn't that come because of the stress and the worry? He didn't know anymore. All he knew was at some point he'd become like that castle. No longer recognizable for what he one was. Worn away until only the vaguest shape of what had once existed remained.
It wasn't what he wanted.
It had never been what he wanted.
He didn't know what he wanted to be anymore.
It was an anniversary in a way, and in another it was not. Either way he chose to look at it, the day served as a reminder. Of what he'd once been and what he could be again if he chose it.
If he could find the strength to choose it.
Donald didn't know how many times he had counted to thirty-nine when he stood. He left the beach, the unopened bottle in his hand. Left without knowing what this day would bring, or any other. He realized that in that he wasn't alone. Perhaps too late, but he finally did realize that.