2021-11-28 - Beauty And The Beach

The sky trembles as if beaten by a thousand hooves; above, lost between the murky clouds, must surely be some terrible battle among the gods, whose every clashing sword sends a scatter of blue-white sparks and arcing bolts racing through the darkness. It is violent, tempestuous, chaos embodied. The wind howls across the earth, and even the tide has been roused to frenzy, heavy waves smacking into the rocks amidst the downpour.

For most people, this storm was predicted on the weather station. Anyone intelligent would have kept to their cars and indoors, avoiding the worst of heaven's depravations. There's no real reason to be at this stretch of beach, unless you were driving along the shore en route to some other, more important place.

But there, barefoot on the rocks and sand, is a man. A man who is simply staring into the sky, a bottle of booze in one hand and lightning dancing between his fingers on the other. A man who, when he walks, stumbles, slouches, and then steadies himself. "Yeah, fuck you, too," he growls, and spits into the wind. It's only fair, the rain's been spitting on him for hours, and it's fucking cold, to boot.

He takes another swig, and then hunkers down, ass on a rock. This'll be a long night.

--

Or an early morning! It all depends on when he's interrupted; by morning, he'll be unconscious on the rocks.

One would think that after hunkering down through one storm and coming out the other side in a new year, people who had lost time would want to avoid storms like the plague. Isolde isn't one of these people. She's lost time, yes, and most of the storms she's experienced in Gray Harbor are rather scary, but she's sure this is a normal storm and she was tired of confining herself to her apartment. She was still not entirely sure what she'd gotten up to but there was some damning evidence that it might not have been good.

She's not ready to try and reach out to Alexander or anyone else about it yet though. So instead, she's still out walking in the dark, even while the storm rages on - at least she'd the forethought to wear a rain jacket, but it's putting in overtime . The storm reminds her vaguely of the night she reconnected with Alexander on the very same stretch of beach. Isolde makes a mental note to at least try and reach out to talk to him and see how he's doing. She's barely spoken to anyone. She spies a figure in the distance and furrows her brow. Is it real?

She blinks once, rubs her eyes, and when the figure is still there? Decides it must be real. Isolde draws closer out of sheer curiosity for who could possibly also be out in the storm. Isolde doesn't speak until she's nearly right next to him. "Why are you out here?" It's a fairly direct question and her stare is a curious one.

Real, perhaps, but Isolde can be forgiven her skepticism -- what manner of madman would it take to be barefoot on the gray beach, challenging God to a shouting contest? He looks like some will o' the wisp when the lightning flashes, his rain-muted silhouette catching the light and burning bright like the sun. It's in those moments that she can see him best, the sharp features, the hair matted to his brow like tangles of seaweed, the rain oozing down his face like slick tear trails. Tall, broad-shouldered, and fit, which is perhaps the only reason he's still conscious at this point.

"That's what I thought," he taunts the night, as the last thunderclap fades. For a moment, the rain has relented a little bit, thinned. He's soaked enough his white shirt is translucent, and his jacket piled on the rocks a few feet away leaves him with little protection from the elements.

In this stretch of comparative silence, with even the rain's noise gentled as the water's surface shimmers from the drops, Isolde seemingly sneaks up on him. He takes a swig of his bottle, and it's more rainwater than alcohol. He winces.

"Having a conversation in peace," he finally answers, sullen-eyed, the golden flecks amidst the hazel green staring the womand own. "I thought God would hear me better if I went somewhere quiet."

With the raining lighting up, Isolde slips off her ran jacket and starts to drape it over the stranger. If he stops her, well, she'll still lay it on the rock for him to take up if he wanted. She's not as soaked through as he is. Her dark brown hair is looking a little wild and falls to about her mid-back and her pale green eyes betray a hint of restlessness. "Did he answer you?" She sits herself down on one of the rocks near him and looks out over the stormy ocean and sky. "I've never tried talking to him. Don't know if he's real or not."

She's never been very religious - always too busy trying to run from her demons to think about it. Isolde drags her gaze back over towards the man. "I've never seen you around town before. What's your name?" She's fairly sure she's never seen him before at least. There were a lot of faces in town but Isolde feels like she's seen most from working at the Pourhouse or just wandering. Still, there were always going to be a handful that escaped her sight.

"God's a great listener," the man replies, the complimentary words betrayed by the bitter tone. His mouth twists like he spoke a slur, then becomes a cynic's smile. "He'll take all your sins and worries to heart, and guide you once more to the righteous path. Believe in him who is the way." He looks down at the rain-and-liquor filled bottle, half empty, and tests its weight. He flicks his wrist upward, grabs the bottle by the neck, and with a sidewinding throw sends it hurtling across the waters. The plink of it can just barely be heard, before another distant roar of thunder frightens the world.

"Maybe the old man's just busy today," he offers, bringing his free hand to his face. Fingers splay and he brushes his hair back, Greaser-slick, and then he smiles, Greaser-handsome, though there's little good nature in the hollow expression. "Oh, don't mind who I am," he replies. "You're the one weighed down. If God won't answer tonight, then allow me to take his place."

The drunk man pivots on a heel, stares at Isolde like she's a prey animal, and then bows, an arm folded across his chest and the other pointed outward. "Welcome, my child. What troubles crown that lovely brow, to leave you chasing ghosts in the rain?"

Isolde looks at Matthias skeptically. "Are you a priest?" He didn't look like one. Then again did she even know what a priest was supposed to look like? Did they have a specific look outside of the robes? She gives him a bit of a smile though nonetheless, sitting up some on the rock. "Still, I like knowing who I'm talking to." A hand gets pushed through her wet hairm, "My name is Isolde."

There's a soft chuckle at his bow and then she gives a shrug of her shoulders. If she's going to talk, maybe talking to a stranger first isn't so bad. "Well, I'm kinda fuzzy on the details myself." She admits. "I can't really remember anything from the last year or so. That's weird, ain't it?" Isolde only knows she isn't the only one because she's head some other Broadleaf residents talk about it over the past couple months. "I've lost time before, back when I was using bad kinds of pills, but only a day maybe two." Okay, one time there was a week - but that was years ago!

"I have real medication now that I take and it's helped. But when I woke up after the last really bad storm - it was a new year and there were these pill bottles with unfamiliar names on them." And the struggle between taking them or flushing them down the toilet had been strong - but flushing them won out. She looks back up to Matthias. "But I still don't really know where they came from or why I wanted them or anything. I've been staying in my apartment instead of trying to find answers. Guess maybe I don't really want to know."

"A priest?" The question prompts the man to look down at himself, rainsoaked and ragged; a sorry man of God if ever there was one, given the pungent whiskey on his breath and the cloying stain of pine-scented cologne still clinging to him like Axe in a locker room. "Why yes. I was speaking with God earlier, was I not? And he raised the storm to answer me." The man's mouth quirks in a lopsided smile. "I am.. Father Matthias. Confess unto me your sins if seekest ye absolution."

He snorts at himself, a half chuckle, then returns all attention to Isolde. The irreverent look etched into his face like a second skin never falters, even at the gravity of her worried confessions; drug abuse, mental illness, memory loss, all this is a familiar tragedy to one in his profession.

"There are diseases of the mind known for dramatic appearances later in life," Matthias begins, looking down his nose at the woman. "Schizoaffective disorder tends to manifest in the teens and twenties for men, and about a decade later for women. Difficulty with memory and moods is normal, and there are many medications that can be used."

He reaches out toward her, then stops halfway, hand drawing back. "But this isn't a diagnosis; tell me, my child, why did you throw the bottles out?"

It's not entirely clear if Isolde buys this confirmation or not, but it still feels good to get it off her chest. "Well, I dunno how long you've been here, but this town is cursed." Isolde leans back some on her rock, hands curling against the slick stone for support. "And there's other towns that are cursed just like it. I grew up in one. Been half crazy all my life because of it, even when I left home. It followed me." Her nose wrinkled.

"I was doin' just peachy before I'd gone to bed that night. No 'episodes', no problems. Not for several months. I'd be inclined to believe I'd lost my head completely if it weren't for the fact I know several people had the same issue. Unless we're all crazy." Which Isolde also wouldn't count out. She raises a brow lightly when he asks about the pills. "I didn't" She starts and then dismisses it. Maybe it's not worth pursuing in her mind.

Instead, she just answers. "They weren't mine. I didn't throw out the ones that had my name on them because those are the good ones. I threw out the other ones because I don't want to be like that again. I don't miss that me. I don't want to see her." Isolde gave a soft huff. "I just don't remember how I got them in the first place. Maybe I figure walking around town instead of staying holed up will jog my memory."

"Several people? An unexplained group psychosis, how interesting." The man straightens his back and seeks Isolde's eyes, staring at her with an unshakable intensity. "A group of your friends, was it? Do you believe the bottles belonged to one of them?" The implication of a group of friends sharing the same batch of bad drugs and having a reaction to it hangs heavy in the air, the so-called priest's smile always there. "You didn't talk to any of them about it, after all; are you afraid they would judge you for it? Or.. are you afraid one of them would tempt you like that again?"

The rain-slick man begins to walk in a slow, stalking circle, pacing through his thoughts and making a ring in the rocky sand around Isolde's perch with his trudging.

"Well, let's focus on what you do remember. You woke at the New Year. What's the last thing you remember before that?" He raises his hand and gestures around, a sweeping swing of limb to encompass the whole storm-ravaged beach. There's a plastic bag caught on a bit of driftwood whipping in the breeze. How dignified.

"Not friends, no. Some of my neighbors. I've overheard them talking about it. I haven't tried talking to any of my friends because what if they do know what happened?" They don't, but Isolde doesn't know that! "I don't really have many friends, I know they wouldn't tempt me or judge me. Well, not to my face." She mused. "I just. I don't know. It just scared me and I didn't really know how I wanted to handle it."

She watches Matthias start his pacing, though doesn't try and turn her head to completely follow it. "No no. Not at the New Year. I went to bed on September 16th, 2020 and when I woke up it was September 17th, 2021." Isolde clarifies. "I was in different clothes, my phone was missing, and the pill bottles were on my nightstand. In fact, my phone is still missing actually. I picked up a disposable one for now until I find it. Or decide to give up looking for it."

Isolde gives a shake of her head and refocuses. "But, the night I went to sleep. September 16th, 2020. I'd spent the morning working on school work - I'm an Art History Major. All online. The storm was still raging outside. I watched a couple DVDs and checked on my across the hall neighbor in the afternoon because she's old and I wanted to make sure she was still doing okay with everything. I ate a TV Dinner and then went to bed." She shrugged. "If I really concentrate I can...sort of recall some fuzzy things that have happened over the year up to when I woke up. Mostly just working at Pourhouse and some walks around town. It's like there's something there maybe, but my brain doesn't want me to see it. So I can't"

The prowling man is like a wolf, some feral creature mad with firewater stalking out his territory. Yet at the clarification, he stops dead in his tracks, idling in a groove he'd worn into the sand. He scrunches his face up a moment, looking away from the pretty lady, head tilted down as he puzzles something out. "I would.. normally suggest you've had a bad reaction to your medications or some undiagnosed illness. To lose an entire year of memory to a fugue state is unusual. But, as you said, this town is.. cursed?"

At this, Matthias raises his head, turns, and closes the distance between Isolde and himself. "Strange things happen here, it's true. In any other time, any other place, I'd discount these theories. But."

He reaches out, and hooks the tip of one finger at her forehead, tapping at her.

"Let's say it isn't all in your head. That would suggest that some force or accident caused you to lose a stretch of your memories, as well as others. But as you have pieces of memory, that tells us you did not vanish, you forgot."

The touch is withdrawn, and the false priest grows thoughtful, scratching through his salt-and-pepper beard.

"The question is, did you all make yourselves forget.. or did something else?"

"I don't know if cursed is really the right word, but it feels cursed." Isolde agrees. She seems a little startled when Matthias taps at her forehead, eyes widening slightly, but quickly calms down again. "Strange stuff happens here all the time but most people don't see it. But...you see it." She pauses so she can peer at him closer, finally fully registering that shine around him. It was very prominent. "You have the shine." She vocalizes her thought, looking up at him. "I do too." And he might see it if he focuses.

"I think it was the storm." Isolde decides. "I don't know how or why, but something in that storm made it happen. Maybe it also made us forget. Or maybe it was both." She ponders, unhelpfully. "I mean, I don't know about other people that it might've happened to - but I think I would have wanted to forget what I did. So that plus whatever the storm did...maybe it all worked together." She makes a thoughtful noise. "My friend Alexander might have some ideas. I really need to reach out to him. Though I don't know if he was even here when the storm happened so...maybe not. Guess I should find that out too."

The shine of Matthias is a strange thing; he seems too strong for himself by far, barely concealing it from clever eyes. It's the look of a rank amateur. Yet..

"A great storm, throwing your memories into disarray," he follows up with, his tone curious and reverent -- the romance of the mystery has smitten him, left him lust-drunk with the urge to puzzle it out. "Concealing some dark mystery or sordid inglory. You can't know until you do, and you can't take it back once you do." He tucks his thumbs in the soaked pockets of his pants, his breath misting before him as the chill begins to settle in, though the alcoholic warmth conceals it from him. He's almost certainly going to be wind up with a fever.

"And so, my child, a choice. Some things are best left forgotten. You may have willingly buried it. You can dwell on the past and find what you lost, or embrace the future and move on, letting sleeping dogs lie."

He spreads his hands now, untucked. "Which will it be?"

Isolde listens closely as Matthias continues on. She was mildly intrigued by his demeanor and what he was saying. "It's a double edged sword." She agreed finally, rising to her feet and collecting her rain jacket back up to put back on. "Even if I say I want to think about it, I know what my answer will end up being. I want to find out what happened. If I don't, it will always be a little needling in my brain." She gives a wry smile. "So, I'll have to figure out those missing pieces and maybe the nature of the storm."

There's a moment of pause before inclining her head and offering, "I appreciate you listening, and giving me some things to think about. I should probably get back home...and you should to." She pauses. "Or come crash on my couch if you don't have a home." Because there were plenty of homeless in Gray Harbor and he doesn't have shoes on. "It's the least I can do as a thank you for givin' me a sounding board."