The Last Embrace

The harsh waves crashed against the side of the cliff, spraying me and my canvas adding a bit more life to my painting. My frustration and anger fading with every stroke and every breath of the sea. “Thank you,” I whispered letting the wind carry the words to the salted water. The air dry against my nose burned my throat. My easel wiggled in its home, the three holes I dug up years ago, safe from the harsh wind, grass rubbed down to the dirt. 

My paint slaps the canvas and my mind fills with different types of waves and water I could create. The sky clashed with different grays, forcing the ocean into a dreary blue. Birds caw in the distance involuntarily slapping my ear drums, pulling a shiver down my spine. 

“What am I missing?” I spoke softly to myself. I stumbled back and squinted my eyes at the painting. It looked exactly like the landscape before me. A muddy cliff off to the side and a bit further down on the same side a grassy beach. Rocks rose from the ocean, jagged and sharp, even the lines of the waves were harsh and next to them.

The wind pushed at me, tugging my clothes towards the sea digging into the bruises on my arms. My shoulders dropped as I returned to my canvas. Soft brush strokes in the sky calmed it, no longer looking too harsh to be the spot I love. 

I packed up all of my supplies and sat in the grass. I let my mind wander as I fiddle with a small coin. I let my mind go to places it wouldn’t otherwise be allowed. To sunnier days, nicer people and a beautiful town. Anything but what I have now. Right here, it's the only constant I have in my life. 

I watch in a daze as my feet carry me through the town and back into my house. Small and dull, just like everything else. I climb the stairs into my room, a harsh thump lands on my window in an uneven tempo. Rocks, the townspeople are horrible and rude. 

I tried to wiggle deeper into my bed hoping it would swallow me, but grievously, it didn’t. The night carried and the moon was splayed high. My body refused to rest, my stomach turned and my eyes couldn’t stay in focus. 

I pushed myself up and shuffled to my closet, picking out warmer clothes. The sloshing of the water hitting the shore echoed in my ear, begging for attention. I snuck out the door and towards the bay. The salt in the air screamed my name, waiting excitedly for me. 

The dock rattled as my feet displayed my weight against it and the ocean sprayed me as a welcome. The water glittered creating its own stars, masking the ones it couldn’t reflect. I slipped out of my shoes and socks and plunged my feet into the freezing abyss. 

I lay back on the dock watching the stars, counting the seconds until my feet are met with beautiful numbness. Until they’re shriveled like raisins, then —only then can I go home. The wind caressed my face sending shivers down my spine, warming my toes. 

I had thought about painting the night sky with the glimmering ocean below it, and even attempted it a few times. Although, no matter how hard I tried it never looked the same, felt the same.

I think the ocean will just always be one of those mysterious things who never lets her secrets loose, and only lets a few understand some part of her.  I think Van Gogh was one of the lucky few, in his original “Starry Night.” He just seemed to capture it and the sky in such a way you can’t even begin to comprehend. 

My mind ran from me and I sat there working to try to catch it. Uneasy thoughts passed my mind and almost seemed to run alongside it showing me every detail. 

“Why are you out here?” my mind echoed. 

“I love the ocean, you love the ocean,” I whispered. 

“No, why are you out here right now? There is no one here, it is dark and late and cold.” 

With that I pulled my feet from the water. They were drained of color, pain shot up my leg as I stood. Silent tears rolled down my face tickling my cheek. Why does this feel like its happening to someone else?  “The fact that no one here is exactly why I’m here. Can’t you see the way they treat you, tease you, hurt you. Why am I explaining this to you-” 

I pinched the bridge of my nose letting my eyebrows curve to my finger. “Why am I talking in the third person, you know everything! I am you!” I curl my knees up to my chest, cradling myself. “You are crazy, no wonder you have no friends.” I whispered. 

My own hands felt alien on my face, I attempted to calm myself, do what I have only read about in books. An exasperated sigh passes my lips and I watch as the waves crash into each other. Why do I always feel like a spectator in my own head, in my own story? 

I can see myself in my memories, as if they are not my own but somebody else's. I can watch myself get punched, laughed at, bullied and forgotten. As if I don’t exist anymore, or I never did, not for myself anyways. 

I just want a day that I can have to myself, where I am living for myself, happy for myself. A shiver engulfed my body, leaving my brain to static. 

How can I live for myself when I have work tomorrow? A wave of exhaustion washed over my body as I stood, walking back to my house. 

The day went by in a blur and suddenly I was gathering my painting supplies and walking back to the cliff. The sun was high and bright, warming the frozen earth. My face was sun stained and the brushes slipped in my hands. 

Intrusive thoughts begged for attention once again, not giving up until they had their claws around my throat. It was getting so hard to breathe, to think, to live. 

I sit my things in front of the three holes which made up the home of my easel and try to clear my head of the list of problems it wouldn’t stop adding to. I place my brush down next to the leather paint box and watch as if from a distance as they spill onto the tall grass. I slowly started to open the box and my breath was taken from me — my paints all missing the lids to their jars. 

My beautiful leather box is coated in ugly, wet brown muck as the paint mixes into unrecognizable colors. The anger in my mind slips to walking and laughing images of little boys and their harsh words and even harder fists and kicks. My breath was ragged and my nails curled into the palms of my hands leaving half-moons there to greet me. 

It only takes one thought, one phrase, one word. My mind shuts down as my feet carried me to the edge. 

I looked out into the ocean and my feet shuffled closer till there was not much ground to stand on. The wind became more violent pushing me in the other direction as if I could sense my thoughts. There is nothing here stopping me, my face grew hot, no one would care enough to know. Tears burned in the back of my eyes forcing themselves forward, forcing my face a brighter red. 

I force my eyes open and my arms come out to my side, ready for the beautiful embrace. My last embrace. My stomach drops as the ground is pulled out from under me.  

I could only imagine how it looked to someone who wasn’t me. My brown curls covering my face and my dress wanting to float up as gravity forces me down. Silent tears rolled down my face tickling my neck. I waited for the impact, but I guess in a way I’ve already felt it. The pressures of everything everyone tells me. Maybe I would do better when I’m gone, all the best artists do. 

I held my breath squeezing my eyes, waiting for the harsh crack of me being pulled farther into the ocean. Waiting for the water to fill my lungs and become a part of me. 

Something tickled my ear and I couldn't feel the wind anymore, was this it? Was my death really that fast? Did things really move in slow motion when you are about to die?  “Oh no,” a soft voice echoed, “We cannot destroy something that has loved us so beautifully.” 

I opened my eyes and found myself lying on top of the ocean, cradled between its arms. Wrapping around me like a blanket. It returned me to the cliff and set me back by my easel. It swallowed my tears and washed my face, leaving no traces. Tears fell from my face as I let a heavy breath go, relieving my lungs of a long pressure, “No, please you don't, you don't understand. I didn’t fall — I jumped.” 

The ocean swaddled me again, every once in a while dropping water down onto me. In that moment I knew I wasn’t the only one crying. After a while it let up, placing a brush in my hand. With a dip of paint, it guided every stroke, writing out the words I had only dreamt of hearing, “We love you.”  Somehow that was more convincing than anything I had ever witnessed in my life.

The Cliff Walk at Pourville, By. Claude Monet

Photo from Google Cultural Institute