https://www.artstation.com/artwork/B33BW8
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
I imagine myself waiting at the end of pier number twelve. Like the woman waiting there now, in the fog that is so terribly gray and thick and cold. I can feel it through the window. Why is it like this?
It didn’t used to be like this. I remember the sun, the sky, the clouds. They lazed in the sky like the fishermen at the end of the pier, who would kindly make way for the children, eager to see the day’s catch, only to become disappointed when they’d find empty buckets and pipe smoke.
I have watched it many times, from this exact spot. But no day has ever been like today. One would think it was night, but by my watch, it is exactly midday. The only light is the lamppost right above her and the simple wooden chair that has always been there. She looks so determined with her fine boots, long coat, and suitcase. I should tell her no boats are coming. If only it weren’t so cold. If only I had the courage to call to her from the window. If only it would open. Where could she be going?
I always wanted to go somewhere. Saved up as much as I could, but it was never enough. I had fine boots, like hers, an ample suitcase, like hers, even the coat–at least what I can gather from here. We could be travelling companions, her and I. Fit to see the world until our purses ran dry, discovering more similarities than our attire as we explore distant lands. When I close my eyes, I can picture it. When I step back from the window, I can feel it. But I choose not to, instead living vicariously through this woman who achieved what I never could.
My toes grow cold in leather boots, and I hug my coat to my breast to stave off the chill. I smell the sea through a numb nose, and I do believe I see lights on the horizon, and I do believe they are coming for me.
It feels good to smile. I am sure she is, too. If only she would turn, I could wave to her to wait for me. I could grab my boots and suitcase and coat, then join her. Perhaps have a nice conversation, standing close enough to keep each other warm while we wait for the approaching vessel.
And why not? I feel a tightness in my chest that is most pleasant, and a tear in my eye, a new smile pushing it free. Why not, indeed?
I rush around my spartan apartment to gather my things, for there is not much. I regard the room where I have lived so many years, with my back to the window. The bed, neatly made where I have made love but once to a gentle man who sold second-hand books from a stand on the wharf. The nightstand, where a picture of a girl rests. A young thing of maybe five years, who I claimed was my deceaced daughter when my landlord first tried to raise the rent. I shall confess this to the woman on the pier. I must, because we will share everything with each other. And finally, the wardrobe where all my things are kept.
I sit on my bed one last time, then lay down to see the ceiling one last time. The rotten wood there looses a drop of water. I sit up in time for it to miss me, impressed by my reflexes at this age, excited to hone them further on my journey.
I pick up the picture of the girl and go to the wardrobe. It is already open but dark, so I search for matches to light the candle I keep there for just such an occasion. There are no matches. There is no candle. I feel around blindly in the depths of the wardrobe. There is nothing.
How can this be? The tightness in my chest tightens to an upleasant degree, and air is hard to find. I decide to rest on my bed for a moment. Once the pain subsides, once my mind clears, I will find what I need. I must look more carefully. My excitement got the better of me, I realize, and I feel my smile return, the sensation in my chest returning to pleasantness.
I sit up, look at my socked feet, and wiggle my toes. They will be even warmer in those boots. I rub my shoulders. They will feel more at home in the coat. I flex my fingers, which are arthritic but can manage the weight of my suitcase. The woman on the pier might be much younger than me, and I need to show her I have a matching vitality to not disuade her from joining me.
Then I feel something. A sense she is gone, so I run to the window. Thankfully, she is still there. Exactly as I had left her.
I search the wardrobe again. Under my bed. The dark corners of my room, of which there are many. I find nothing.
Weeping, I sink to the floor. Then the door’s lock clicks. Its knob turns, and it opens. A young man enters, followed by my landlord. I demand what they are doing here. I tell them to leave. They do not listen. When I run out of breath, the young man says, observing my home with complacent eyes, “This will do.”
It will not do, I say. Still, they do not listen. At least they leave me. To find my things. I will find my things. But first, I must see her, to make sure she is still there. The ruckus could have driven her to another pier, for there are many. She is still there, but turned.
I can see her face. I can see all of her in the lamplight. Her belongings. They look like mine. She looks like me.
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