Under the Lighthouse

Word count: 932


The lock snapped from the chain in an explosion of rusted metal and secrets. The old lighthouse, still in use, still a symbol of the town’s contribution, lay still in the warm morning sun. The waves that normally assault the shore surrounding the rocky outcrop where the tall beacon sits, more an homage to men and women that built it than a calling for hope to desperate sailors, had subsided years ago, the biorhythms of the ocean changed and a calmer, gentler tide frolicked just off the coast.

Despite being out of service for years, the interior of the house looked bright, the layers of dust dancing as the sun’s rays shone through the tiny circular windows that dotted the entire height of the structure. The dust, sparkling as it bounced and churned on the breeze, rendering the lifeless house some motion, a simple cadence of movement that brought a sense of harmony and warmth that shouldn’t be felt. The town had spent millions to keep the lighthouse in working order, even though it hadn’t been in service for a decade, the symbolic focal point of the rocky coastline also an extension of the pride and honor felt among the town. This lighthouse, this beacon in the dark, had seen but one ship wreck on her shores in 57 years of service. No other town could claim that honor.

Charles didn’t bother looking around. He headed for the spiral staircase that climbed high into the darker recesses of the building. Each step he took and the building seemed to narrow, seemed to close in around him, much like a python curling around its latest victim and squeezing the life out him. The stairs spiraled to the top, his circular motion bringing back visions of the car, laying on its roof, spinning like a demented top, teetering every so often, before coming to a rest at what seemed like a lifetime of time. His legs ached. They had done since the accident. But that wasn’t going to stop him from climbing to the top.

He had always wanted to see the view from the top. When his family first moved here he wasn’t much more than 7, and his dad had promised him he’d take him to the top to look down on his town. His dad always called it his town. Back then, Charles had no idea what that meant, but now, as he labored up step after step, pausing only briefly to peer out the porthole windows, catching only fleeting glimpses of the world around him, small snippets that would flash in his mind from one glimpse to the next, Charles knew exactly what his dad had meant when he used those words. His dad held the position of mayor, a role he cherished for 22 years before finally calling it quits to tend to his ailing wife. When Angela died, not long after, it sent both Charles and his father, Nathan, into a downward trend of destruction. Nathan turned to alcohol, Charles to drugs, and through it all they managed to help each other get clean, put one foot in front of the other, and keep moving forward. It had been a little over a year since Charles kicked his habit. But with the drugs gone, he turned to drinking. Not as heavily as his father, but often to the point of not remembering who he was.

He was just as proud of his father when he came clean. His father hadn’t touched a drop in months, often raising a glass of Perrier at the celebrations and gala events that he often attended as a guest speaker. His father was still loved in the community, and as Charles climbed the Nathan Atwater Lighthouse, up the same stairs his father promised they’d climb together. He paused mere steps from the hatch that would open to the cage floor above him that would signify his accent to the top. Looking down, the grand sweeping staircase stretching out like the limbs of some Hindi dancer, almost entwined in circles, he felt a calm sweep over him.

Once through the hatch, and on level ground, Charles spotted the door that would take him outside, onto the patch that circled the tower, offering views of the town and out into the ocean. The wind swirled above him, around him, enveloping him with a crispness that defied the sun’s warmth. To his right, the beach was empty, too many kids still in school. To his left, the ragged shoreline, with rocks as twisted and evil as anything he had dreamt those first weeks after the accident, his head spinning like white Jag that his father drove.

He knew right away it was bad. A car can’t end up like that and not be bad. He managed to walk away, as people in his state usually did. His father wasn’t so lucky. Scared, confused, still too drunk to think clearly, Charles wrestled with the key in the ignition and sputtered towards home, before leaving his Malibu abandoned a mile south of town.

Looking out over the town, holding his arms across his chest, Charles took a deep breath. He pulled a photo of his mom and dad and himself from his pocket and smiled. He was 10, bright eyed and expectant. His dad wore a look of commitment and determination. But under it Charles saw the troubled look of a man who loved his family more than he could show.

“Told you I’d see the top dad.” Charles said, dropping the photo and stepping from the ledge.