Tsunami

The water came on cold and built slowly to a searing heat. He stood underneath its flow, and the dirt began to turn to mud. The mud washed off of him with the water and the tub filled. The drain gave a last burp in an attempt to take it down, but it was futile - dark brown mud slopped over the side onto the bathroom floor and trails of it filled the grout lines in the tile – running away from the mess and towards the hall.

By now the water was almost too hot to bear, but he could not get out from under it. He must wash, and he scrubbed himself raw with a toilet brush in an attempt to remove the dirt. It would not come off. Mud slopped from his arms, his legs, his back, but the dirt remained and he scrubbed and scrubbed to no avail. Soon his scrubbing had done away with the skin and he began to bleed. The red blood seeping in with the brown mud and flooding the bathroom. Finally he stopped.

In the mirror he could see only two white eyes and a mud man dripping with blood. This is not me, this is not who I am. He ran from the bathroom into the house where his family waited. They were scared – his wife held a butcher’s knife and the children cowered behind her with large frying pans to protect them.

“You bastard,” cried the wife who held the knife in one hand and waved a finger at him with the other, “you’ve tracked mud all through the house!”

His son took a long-distance swipe at him with his frying pan and cried something unintelligible. Jesus, this is not me – I am not who they think I am. He ran away from his family now, out the front door and into the street. His neighbors frowned at him as he ran past their homes naked, covered in mud and blood. What could they be thinking of this spectacle, he wondered, how have I got myself to this point?

He remembered the girl, a young girl, and the chance encounter at the coffee shop. He remembered her legs, her eyes, and the perfume she wore which drove his mind to wander into places he never dreamed it would. He could not remember her face. He remembered the battle which he finally won over his better judgment, and calling her number from a pay phone. He remembered . . .

Now he was on the freeway, with people staring out their windows at the naked mud man running along the shoulder. They yelled at him, called him names, and he had to keep running. Someone got out of a big truck and chased him with a baseball bat, but he was too fast and he heard the shouts fade as he ran down an off-ramp and towards the beach.

Her house – he remembered. Yes, actually her parent's house. He tapped on her window just as they had arranged, and climbed inside when she slid it open for him. The embrace, the violent kisses, then the forbidden places. She went first, and he was so excited he thought he might embarrass himself so he took over. He remembered the smell, and the taste of her. But she would not stay quiet, she would not stop screaming and moaning. He was overcome, and knew he had to fulfill this moment. He remembered cupping his hand over her mouth, almost covering her whole face. Maybe that is why he could not remember . . .

He was being chased through the park now, along the beach. A crowd followed closely behind as he ran. They were yelling and throwing bottles at him:

“You are tracking mud through our park!”

“You’ll dirty the beach, stay away from the beach!”

But he couldn’t – he had to get clean and he needed the water. He ran faster now, leaving the crowd panting in his wake. He could see the blue water, and the waves coming in fast to cleanse him. He ran.

When the door opened one hand had got her pajamas around her ankles while he tried his best to keep her quiet with the other. He was caught, but he did not stop. He had to go there, and with the father standing stunned by the inconceivable sight before him he did go there. She bit him, he yelled. The father shot him in the belly and the dirt poured out from the wound covering him as he jumped back out through the window.

He was running naked now, with his belly open and dirt spreading out of the gun wound to cover his entire body. He tried to plug it with his fingers – the dirt ran through his hands and up his arms to his face. He cried. He ran into his home and went straight to the shower.

Now he was on the sand of the beach and he stopped. A wave was coming in on the horizon, a wave which he would wait for. The people from the park had seen it too, and they ran from it – they feared the water. The wave came in quickly and grew to enormous size. He could see that it was over one hundred feet high – a tsunami – and he waited for it. He reveled in the horrible noise it made. The noise of sinking ships and washed out shanty towns. Cities crumbled underneath waves like this and now he charged at it with all of his might. Running into the little water which had not been sucked off the beach by the approaching monster he yelled and waved his arms. The mud and blood washed in the blue ocean, and then the wave hit him.

Sand.

Water.

He tumbled, and crashed, and then he saw it: a face.

Yes, he could remember the face of the father.