short story: of fog, fishermen and fallen angels

The bench planks dug into her ribs and bruised her pale skin. If you walked past her you might not notice her thin form on the bench, few people ever did. At some point, she stopped noticing you as well; you in your smart clean coat and polished shoes that clacked against the ground, expensive coffee in one hand and expensive phone in the other. Her hair was damp and dirty, hanging in matted strings around her thin face. She may have been pretty when her cheeks were full and rosy and when her watery eyes weren’t so bloodshot, but the world had a weird way of destroying beautiful things.

She walked through the park down to Pier 45 silently. The weather warmed by mid-morning, evaporating the fog. She would be gone by then, almost like a ghost, or maybe an angel.

Her feet seemed to know something she didn’t and by late afternoon she was standing in front of a maroon brick building on a quiet street. The salt from the ocean was no longer enough to mask the smell of filth. A warm breeze tossed a plastic bag against the wall and over the gutters but it did nothing to settle the chill she felt under her large jacket.

Her hand was steady even as she extracted a brass key from her pocket and fit it into the rusted gate. The groan from the hinges hardly affected her as she pushed them open. Suspicious stains covered the stairs and walls, and a sulphurous smell seeped down the stairs. Shaking, she brought out another key. The doorknob was covered in rust, though the lock mechanism inside was still sound. She paused, listening. The hum of a radio disguised any other sounds that may have been made by the man inside. Steeling her nerves, she twisted the key in the lock and slowly pushed the door open, the hinges silent. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the glow of the old box tv in the corner. A radio commentated the baseball game unfolding on the silent screen.

She closed the door quietly, though she knew he knew she was there. He always knew.

“So you finally came crawling back,” his voice was deep and gravely, an after effect of a lifetime nicotine addiction. “Yes sir.” “Humph.”

He was silent for what felt like hours and when her breathing finally evened out, she made her escape to her small room in the back. The door scraped against the floor as she opened it, the after-effects of the last time it rained when the roof sprung a leak. Her space inside was small and bare. A glass jar on the windowsill contained a dried rose from her last birthday but there was little else. The old wooden floors were poorly fitted and allowed for cold wind to wreak havoc in the winter.

of fog, fishermen, short

written and illustrated

by Bethany Eickhoff

The sheets on her bed were dusty and moth-bitten, it was so long since she’d slept there it hardly mattered. It was only a matter of time before she left again. She only came back to make sure he hadn’t drunk himself to death and never stayed more than a night. Even still, this room felt familiar, maybe the closest thing to a home she had had, though with every visit it was starting to feel more like a prison. The view out her window wasn’t the best, consisting of grey and red rooftops, but if she stared hard enough, she could imagine the faint blue line of the ocean on the horizon.

She knew she couldn't stay here. She couldn’t fly with these chains around her ankles. She shuffled quietly to the kitchen, keeping an eye on the back of his head the entire time. Loud snores came from the devil in the chair, settling the storm in her heart. She opened the old fridge as quietly as she could, not wanting to wake the sleeping demon. She quickly scanned the shelves. The milk was out of date and the takeaway in the containers smelled questionable.

She has more luck with the cabinet. The jar of peanut butter was half full and she found a full pack of stale biscuits that she managed to fit into the large pockets of her jacket.

Then she was out the door and down the stairs and onto the street and free. She would never come back, she decided. She stood on the opposite side of the street, taking in the building she had been chained to for so long, the sunset cast a yellow glow down the street, making it seem almost charming, the colourful buildings taking on a warm look. But the maroon building remained dark. She wanted so badly to move towards the warmth the light promised but she knew she would never be fully embraced, not any more.

Turning on her heel, she made her way north towards the bridge. The setting sun created inky shadows that may have hid evil things but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She knew all of them by name. She would be a part of them soon enough.

Dusk approached with the viciousness of a jealous lover. The shadows clung to the soles of her worn shoes, inviting her to join them. She was an angel falling, and she didn’t know when to stop.

You missed her shadow on the street corner. You missed the feral grin that spread across her face, the flash of sharp teeth and the glow of her eyes under the street lights, her shadow crowned in horns.