Descending the staircase, Mr. Bicknell allowed the tips of his fingers to gently tickle the smooth walnut banister as his ship swayed to the waltz of the salty sea. Deep breaths filled his head with intoxicating sounds and smells. He gazed upon his guests below. A muted orchestra accentuated the beat of his steps and a beautiful woman called to him to hurry down.
Tonight he was a hero. Tonight he would re-emerge into the fold he’d left behind to fight and win a war. A golden band studded with glittering gems strained at the breast pocket of his custom tailored tuxedo.
Tonight was the night he’d finally start the life he’d dreamed of; the dream which had fueled the tumultuous decade that ended his youth. All of the days in which he’d slipped seamlessly between the worlds of the living and the dead - reality melting into constant darkness, peppered with the stench of sulphur and blood - all of the hell he’d endured would be worth it now.
A sharp pain pierced his brain and jolted Mr. Bicknell back to the alley behind the bakery near the dumpster where he lived. As it did every morning. Just before the sun. Seagulls screaming to the faded rhythm of his cruel dream.
He repacked his tattered bag as he gnawed on someone’s discarded crust of bread and scanned the gravel for cigarette butts and took a deep breath. Today would be the day.
His head once again filled with the omnipresence of the sea. The sea he’d once conquered. The sea he’d once owned. The sea that ultimately betrayed him and swallowed his dreams whole with the ease and irony of an angry God punishing his prodigal son for unimaginable sins and hubris.
In spite of its harshness, in spite of the many ways it had destroyed him, the sea had also been the only true home he’d ever known.
Today was the day that Mr. Bicknell would gather his strength and his memories and the few bits and pieces of life that he still owned. He’d don his best hat, slowly migrate towards the edge of his world, and descend from this earth into the comfort of an eternal, watery grave.
