I was fine. Perfectly fine. Just… standing by the lighthouse because I needed the light, or the dark, hard to say which. You saw me there, didn’t you? Or maybe that’s just what you want to remember. I could’ve walked in. I could’ve told you to go. But I didn’t. And now you’re acting like I owe you an explanation for existing near a beam of glass. Classic.
I don’t owe you an apology, Ana. You’re the one who vanished. I spent half the night wondering if you’d actually stepped off that ledge or just walked away again. The police said no body, no footprints in the mud near the base. Convenient.
I’m not acting like anything. I’m just… here. With this headache that won’t quit. You took my keys, by the way. Not yours. Mine. Which means you weren’t just standing there. You were in my car. Why?
I needed the keys. Don’t flatter yourself into thinking I was hesitating. You were asleep. Or passed out. Same thing. I took them because you wouldn’t give them up. The headache’s yours, Tess. I drove. I parked. I walked back. Those are the facts. You’re inventing a crime scene to cover up the fact that you’re shaken. And don’t pretend you don’t know why I needed to move the car. It was blocking the view. That’s all.
Blocking the view? You moved the car because you couldn’t stand the sight of it? Fine. Let’s go with that. I’m shaken. I’m always shaken.
But here’s the thing, Ana. I don’t remember giving you the keys. And I certainly don’t remember you asking. I woke up in the passenger seat, which is funny, because I’m terrified of driving at night. So who was steering? You? Or someone else who knew exactly how to park that beast without a scratch?
And while we’re unraveling truth, why does my jacket smell like your perfume? I don’t wear that.
You were unconscious, Tess. I didn’t ask. I just moved them. You’re dreaming the rest. And don’t twist this—my jacket was on the passenger seat. You took it off when you passed out. That’s why it smells like me. Or maybe it smells like the pine cleaner from the lighthouse keeper’s shed where I changed because the smell in the car was… suffocating. I don’t know. You’re asking questions you don’t want answers to.
Pine cleaner? You changed clothes in a lighthouse shed? Ana, the keeper’s house was boarded up. I walked past it. Doors chained. Windows smashed. You’re getting better at this fiction game than I am.
But sure. Let’s pretend you were MacGyver in a storm. Changing clothes. Walking back to a car that was parked diagonally across two spots. How did you even get in without the key fob? You said you took the keys. If I was asleep, how did you get them out of my pocket without waking me?
And if you’re such a detective, why is there mud on your left shoe? The right side was clear.
You’re sharp when you’re paranoid. I didn’t take them from your pocket. You handed them to me. You were crying. Or laughing. Hard to tell. I wore your spare jacket because mine was… stained. The mud? I walked the path behind the dunes. Found something. Or didn’t. You’re fixated on the shoe because you know I’m not telling you about the phone call. The one I made from the payphone near the ferry. To you. While you were still in the car.
I didn’t get a phone call. My phone’s been dead since Tuesday.
But the payphone… that’s new. You always hated the coin slots. Said they felt like prison boxes. So you called me. While I was unconscious in the passenger seat. Speaking to whom? The answering machine? Or did you just talk to the static?
And if I handed you the keys, why are you looking at my hands like I’m lying? I didn’t hand you anything. I was shaking. From the cold. Not from… whatever you think I was doing.
Wait. You said “stained” jacket. What kind of stain doesn’t wash out with pine cleaner, Ana?
It wasn’t wine. It was rust. From the ladder at the base. I dropped it. Or it fell. I remember the sound. A metallic crack that echoed louder than the waves. You weren’t shaking from cold, Tess. You were shaking because you recognized the sound. Or because you knew I was the one who broke it. The stain’s old. It’s on the inside seam. I didn’t wash it. Couldn’t. Not after I found the note in the mud. The one you wrote. But didn’t send.
Rust? You’re selling me a ghost story about metal now? The ladder was steel. It doesn’t rust that fast. And I didn’t write a note. I don’t carry paper. Too heavy. Too traceable.
You’re good. Really good. But the payphone signal wouldn’t have reached the car. Dead zone. I checked the map last week. That’s why I kept trying to call you. You were just… gone.
If I wrote a note, what did it say? And why is there a piece of blue tape on your collar? The kind used to mark crime scenes. You’re not just a witness, Ana. You’re part of the setup.
Blue tape? That’s from the hospital. You cut my collar when they tried to sedate you. I kept it. To remember. And the note? It said I didn’t mean to push. But you didn’t push anyone. That’s the thing. The ladder broke on its own. Or you. I’m not sure which is worse. And don’t pretend you know about the dead zone. You’ve been driving a ghost car all night. I saw the taillights. Faint. Flickering. Like you were two places at once.
Hospital? I haven’t been in a hospital since the flu. You’re inventing medical records now? And the ghost car? My car’s a rusted hatchback, Ana. It doesn’t flicker. It dies.
You keep saying I didn’t mean to push. Push who? The ladder? Or me? If I’m the one who wrote the note, why does it smell like your cigarettes? I quit. Years ago.
And if you saw the taillights, why are you standing here in the dark? Unless you were the one holding the flashlight. Which means you weren’t at the payphone. You were right there. Watching. Waiting for me to remember. Or forget.
I wasn’t watching. I was calling the only number I had. Yours. Even if it was dead. Especially then. The cigarette smell? That’s from the ash on the floor mat. You smoked a pack last night. You quit on paper, Tess, not in your lungs. And I’m standing here because the light’s off. Always has been. You want to know why I’m not running? Because you’re the one who forgot. Not me. I remember the weight of your hand on the wheel. And the silence after.
You’re hallucinating. I don’t smoke. My lungs are clean. That ash? Must be from the lighthouse keeper’s old stove. You’re projecting.
And the weight of my hand on the wheel? I wasn’t driving. I told you. I was asleep. Or passed out. Same thing.
But if I quit, why do I have this craving right now? Strong as hell.
You say I forgot. So tell me. What did I push? The ladder? Or you? Because if you’re lying about the note, Ana, I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re unstable. You’ve always been good at that. Blurring the lines. Making me doubt my own hands.
Unstable? Maybe. But I’m the one standing. You’re the one clutching your chest. The craving is withdrawal, Tess. From last night. Or from years. It doesn’t matter. You didn’t push the ladder. You pushed me. Against the glass. Because I told you I saw the body. The one in the water. The one that wasn’t there when we looked. You don’t remember because you don’t want to. And that note? It wasn’t paper. It was carved into the dashboard. In blood. Or ketchup. I can’t tell anymore. Check the glove box. If you’re brave enough.
Glove box? Ana, you’re losing it. There’s no blood. Just registration papers. And a map of the coast.
But you mentioned a body. In the water. I looked. Twice. Nothing but kelp and driftwood. You’re obsessed with ghosts now. Or maybe just with me.
I’m not clutching my chest. I’m holding my coffee. Which is cold. Like your voice.
You say I pushed you. Against the glass. Of what? The window? The lighthouse lens? You’re mixing metaphors, Ana. Or memories.
If it was blood, why is there no stain on my shirt? I check my cuffs every morning. Always pristine. Unless you lied. Again.
My cuffs are clean? That’s what bothers me. Not the blood, but the lack of it. You scrubbed hard. Too hard. Your knuckles are raw. I saw them. In the lighthouse window reflection. You didn’t push me, Tess. You pushed the lens. It cracked. That’s why the light was off. That’s why the car died. You broke the eye of the coast. And now you’re asking about stains? Go check your knuckles. Tell me if they’re clean. I dare you. I’m not lying. I’m just tired of being the only one who remembers the glass breaking.
Raw? My hands are fine. I just washed them. Repeatedly. Until the skin burned.
The lens? You’re seeing cracks in things that aren’t broken. That light is electric. LED. No glass eye. Just bulbs. You’re chasing a metaphor, Ana. It’s pathetic.
And if I broke the lens, why am I still here? Why didn’t I run? You say I’m the one who forgot, but you’re the one describing a crime scene I didn’t commit. A cracked lens. A dead car. A body that isn’t there.
Check your own knuckles. They’re shaking. Not mine.
Shaking? Maybe. From cold. Or rage. You think I’m chasing metaphors? Look at the streetlamp above us. It’s flickering. Just like the car. Just like the lens. Or the bulb. Whatever you want to call it. I didn’t see a body in the water, Tess. I saw a shadow. A shape that moved against the tide. And you were the one who screamed. Not because of the light. But because it looked like someone reaching for you. From below. You didn’t push the lens. You pushed the memory out. And now it’s back. In the mud. In the tape. In my shaking hands.
I didn’t scream. I laughed. Hysterically, maybe. But it was a laugh. The kind you make when the world tilts on its axis and you realize you’re the only one holding it up.
A shadow? You saw a shadow? Ana, the tide was out. There was no one there. Just the mud. And the ladder. Still standing. Rusty, maybe. But standing.
You’re shaking because you’re scared. Not of me. Of what you might have done. What you might have seen. And now you’re trying to pin it on me. Classic deflection.
Go check your hands. I dare you. But don’t come crying to me when you find your own fingerprints on the glass.
Fingerprints? On glass? There is no glass. You’re tangling your tongue now. I didn’t push you. I caught you. When you leaned over the railing. You slipped. I grabbed your wrist. Hard enough to bruise. That’s why my knuckles are raw, Tess. Not from washing. From holding on. You fell back. Landed on the damp wood. Laughing. Because you knew I’d saved you. Or because you knew I’d let go. The shadow wasn’t in the water. It was you. Leaning out. I’m shaking because I’m angry you’re so sure I’m lying. Check your wrist. The bruise is fading. But it’s there.
Leaned over? I don’t lean. I stand. Firm. Feet planted.
You caught me? Ana, my wrists are clean. No bruises. No marks. Just the red skin from scrubbing. You’re mixing up dreams again. Or maybe you’re the one who slipped. You always have terrible balance when you’re drunk.
And laughing? I never laugh when I’m terrified. I freeze. You know that. I’m the statue. You’re the one who runs.
If you saved me, why did you leave me there? In the dark? With the dead phone? You didn’t save me. You abandoned me. Again.
Check your own wrist. The one you’re hiding in your pocket. That’s where the real bruise is. From gripping something that wasn’t there.
My pocket? Don’t lie. I’m not hiding anything. You’re the one checking your wrist for a bruise that isn’t there. Because you didn’t slip, Tess. You jumped. Or you were pulled. The mud on my shoe isn’t from the dunes. It’s from the interior floor mat. Dark, wet, sticky. You were standing there. Or floating. I don’t know anymore. The lighthouse light is off because I broke it. Deliberately. To stop the reflection. To stop seeing what was behind you.
Stopped the reflection? You broke the light because you saw something behind me? Or because I saw something behind you?
I didn’t jump. I don’t jump. I fall. There’s a difference. One’s a choice. The other’s gravity.
And my hands are clean. Look. Really look. No mud. No blood. Just skin. You’re the one with the sticky floor mat. You said it was dark. Wet. Sticky. That’s not mud, Ana. That’s oil. Engine oil. From the car you stole. From the car you crashed.
You didn’t save me. You drove me somewhere. Somewhere the light doesn’t reach. And now you’re trying to make me believe I’m the ghost. But ghosts don’t bleed. Do they? Check your pocket again. What did you pull out?