Another Way
by Nathan Bachman
When you reach the top of the bluff, inch forward and put the chair down. Take a seat. Relax. The moon is coming. Take some time to appreciate the horizon and the rolling waves below. Watch the white birds with the black ring round their necks as they glide across the deadly drop and punctuate the air. You’ll be able to see them for only a little longer before the darkness pulls itself across the vista and your human eyes fail.
Now, listen. It will be a soft night. The lolling whispers of the sea are cold and lonely. But that’s why you’re following my directions. You’ve grown lonely with your life, your work, your family. David was a great husband, and Amelia was an easy child. There was a time, you told me, when they needed you and this was everything. That changed. Just snuck up on you despite all your precautions. From a young age, you did everything right by listening to your teachers, your mother, the pastor—and success arrived without struggle. It was depleting. So, you eyed the tops of buildings, overpasses, and bridges. Every precipice held the thrill of leaping—no warning, no note. Just a small thought, a fleeting mercy.
You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Could you?
I had the same profane fantasies. I could barely exist, except near the windows of my home, which stood over the others. My husband was rich and kind, my children bright and clean. Maids, cooks. Dinner parties with famed, illustrious guests. An exhausting arrangement I longed to escape.
Like you, I turned to friends and family. Find a project, they said. A charity. Yes, distractions—they worked better when I was younger. I conquered my listlessness, worked with something like passion. Helped others, until I could not help myself. The vast space I wanted to fill remained. The city’s best physicians diagnosed me. I was overly excited and needed rest. A tired lie. There must be another way, I wished.
I took a respite to the country. To my sister in the salt meadows. She was worried for me but was in the midst of redecorating. We entertained in the drawing room and discussed colors. It was her conscious commitment to the wallpaper that did me in. How different I was! From everyone.
It brought me to the cliffs.
As the sky darkens, be careful. Mind the stars, they appear suddenly. Put your mask on. Secure the strings behind your ears and breathe. What will your mask look like? Mine was a smile.
Hidden under your disguise, there won’t be much to see, but focus through the small holes and gaze on the moon. Remember to sit still. The night lingers over the cliff’s edge. Be patient. You have come this far; you have done all that is necessary. He will come, as he came for me a century ago.
After you’ve sat long enough, the wind will speak your name, and The Maker will arrive. He coils up from the water and snakes over the moon, wingless and ghoulish. Try not to scream. If you lose your nerve—you’ll have but a moment to decide.
His kiss is eternal. Everlasting. I know you’ve thought it over and concluded, as I had, this was the only way. It might be, I cannot tell you—I’ve already chosen. My blood runs cold and bent. You’ve seen me feast, and you weren’t entirely afraid. We talked. For you, I wonder if it was the blood, my terrible strength, or the simple fact what you saw was proof—there is more. For me, it was the latter.
The change is permanent. The costs and the virtues, equally immeasurable. So, if you want to change your mind as he slithers toward you, here’s how: bolt up, take off the mask. Startle the demon. Step forward and throw yourself over, chair and all. The Maker’s quick. Unnaturally, so. But gravity will prevail.
Nathan is a public school teacher in central Ohio where he lives with his wife, two cats, and Shih Tzu. His fiction has appeared in many publications, but most recently in Terrain.org, Hobart, and The Flagler Review. He is also forthcoming in Sunspot Lit.