Death at the Wharf

I was murdered at Fisherman’s Wharf late one night in the month of July, way back when in 1995.

It was a blindside attack from behind, something blunt that set the skies to spinning and the stars to falling, making me forget the who of which I am. Her slender arms sinewed tight as she lifted me in armpit marionette to dance me down the length of the dock. I helped, of course. As I said, I had forgotten the who of which I am and I have always preferred to be the helpful type when I can.

Legs jitterbugging, we did the drunk sailor walk to the edge of the dock where she drew me close, embracing me as her paramour a moment more. See you never, asshole, she whispered in my ear, a lover’s last words before she pushed past the center of my wobbly center of gravity, sending my arms in pinwheel as I wondered if I might learn finally to fly before the harsh reality of saltwater invaded my senses, filled my mouth-nose and washed away my eyes.

I embraced sleep. It seemed the most sensible thing to do at the time.

I awoke to seagulls checking to see if I were a cast-off fish, too ugly for human consumption. Broken shells cut my cheek and I had a hell of a headache to bear. I was soaked, which is what I suppose is the norm when you topple ass-over-teakettle over the edge of a dock in the wharf.

I thought of pushing myself up and sitting, contemplating if the effort was worth the result with my headache arguing for the prone and my cheek protesting doing so. Rotten seaweed and fish corpses finally decided it for me and I pushed myself up in spite of a screaming skull that refused to turn it down from an eleven to a more manageable three or four.

My eyes struggled to focus at first, the beach less shells and sand than a dense white fog. Soon shapes firmed up from a blur and I could see I had managed to drift from Wharf to Point and up onto the broken beach. That was when I caught those dark eyes staring, taking me in — mere moments before stealing my heart with a snap of its wicked wrought black beak.

Raucous laughter filled the morning mists as it took to wing. A conspiracy followed for feasting, leaving my hand on a cavity where I once sported a chest.