There are places where time moves differently. It can race through cities, bouncing off walls and windows, streaking through underground tunnels, gaining speed until years pass by in minutes and progress never stops. It can crawl across prairies, walking beside antelopes, sleeping between wooden planks and lazily swimming in water towers, slow and steady and nothing ever changes.
Here, on this hill, towering above that shoreline, it saturates the air. It stings your eyes like salt, hovers in the sky like the charge of lightning, lingers in the sand waiting for the ocean to sweep it away. Every grain of sand holds a minute and every time the ocean steals one, it gives two back. No one lives here. They stay here.
The people in this hillside town couldn't tell you when they are; they count the time in generations and fishing seasons and influential storms. The stores and houses and barns are pale with wear, old and faded and still. They whisper stories and promises and memories when the wind blows through their splintered walls.
It only takes a blink to get to the ocean from the sign that hangs above the edge of town. Three steps from the sign and the rocky ground becomes sand and you sink. It requires speed, the sandy path, and, when people travel to the shore, they lift their skirts or coats or cloaks and run as fast as they can. The sand that holds minutes pushes them onward, even as it tries to pull them back. The hard water stops the journey with a splash and the cold, crisp shock freezes them in place.
There's a pier that stands proud against the murky water. Where it starts and the sand ends is unclear, but if you know what you're looking for, you can always find it. One step on the boards and it creaks, singing the song of something trapped between land and sea, beckoning you out into the unending waves. Boats come and go, but there is always someone there. Whether they are waiting to leave, or longing to stay, it's impossible to tell, but if you look to the shore, you will find a voyager.
It's a big ocean, the kind that makes you feel small and vast and infinite and finite all at the same time. It stretches out forever and the horizon is fuzzy through a haze of perpetual storms. When you're on the water, on a small fishing boat that is made of rust and respect and godlessness, when there is no hope for home or time for tears, when there is only you and the ocean and the air, it is comforting. The wine-colored water is impossibly dark, crystalline and ravaging.
The steadiness of land, calm and solid and real, doesn't exist on the water and however far you go there will always be a grain of sand to call you back. A lot happens out on the water that can not be accounted for. Sometimes boat disappear, people disappear, time disappears. There is nothing about water that will hold time and when you dip your blood-soaked fingers into the ocean it will clean them and your memories and leave you with nothing.
The woman who lives on the ocean is left with nothing. Nothing, but her boat made of rust, her blood-soaked fingers, and her salt-covered skin. She is lost at sea with no anchor. Years ago, this boat was full of life and fish and money, but then came an influential storm. The town was destroyed, the boat was destroyed, and the life was destroyed. Now, the town is rebuilt, her boat is rebuilt, and her blood-soaked fingers still tie perfect knots.
She doesn't blame herself. It is impossible for her to blame anything, but god and the sea and the frailty of children. She can not feel regret or sadness or loneliness, but they sting her eyes with every salty breeze, begging for her attention. She ignores them and focuses on the beacon on the shore.
From the ocean, it is easy to focus on the hillside town. It is easy to focus on one building in particular. At the top of the hill, there is a large white house, glorious and clean and expanse. It's surrounded by a metal fence that gleams in the sunlight and moonlight and lightning. It is always visible from the sea.
Sometimes, on certain days, there is someone standing in front of the house at the top of the hill. She is always dressed in white, always has her hair down, always staring off toward the ocean, with her toes curled into the grass. The wind loves her, more than it loves the trees or the splintered town walls. It kisses her gently, whipping her hair to side like a flag and blowing her white, linen dress in every direction.
She loves it back. The wind that clings to her brings with it the smell of the ocean and the smell of freedom and the smell of her lover. Here, inside the fence around the house on the hill, she is trapped. This fence is her prison, a cage of wrought iron, that keeps her from the hillside town and her blood-soaked lover on the ocean.
Every day, as her father, dressed in black, opens the fence and begins the treacherous journey down to the hillside town, she considers leaving. She thinks about the great wide somewhere and the feel of rust on her hands, thinks about leaving this house of fear and father of god behind. Every day, when he comes home, removes his white collar and his steel-boned belt, she thinks about the blood-soaked fingers of the woman who wants to love her and wishes she could paint her hands red to match.
He is gone today, away on business, and in his place her ocean lover has arrived, her small, distant body tying her boat to the dock. On the wind, Root can hear the clink of rusty metal against twisted wood, a sweet hello from the ocean to her hill. She takes one last deep breath and turns her back to the fence, returning to her jail of brick and mortar.
She crosses the threshold and the wind tries to follow her inside, its tender tendrils pulling at her hair, but this house is not made from wood and even with an open door, nothing can sneak inside to find her in her father's trap. Nothing, but the creature of heat and salt and tragedy that has promised to try and love her.
Root's feet make no sound on the stairs as she climbs them, stepping past crosses and pictures of dead elders that refused to help her in her youth. She smiles as she remembers the first time she and her blood-soaked tragic lover met. Root had sacrificed her hat to the wind and the ocean, and the ocean and wind had brought it back.
A sharp knock on the door that day had changed her life and as she stood at the top of the stairs, she sent a prayer of thanks to the sea and the salt and the stony hillside. So much had changed since that night. Root had lost her childish face and her faith in god and her useless, worthless virginity. Shaw is her only religion now and one day she will sweep Root away on the sea forever.
Root steps into her bedroom, leaving the door open behind her. She likes to leave Shaw a trail, a clear path into her bed and her body, a standing invitation. Reaching for the laces of her rough linen dress, worn from years of wear, she decides to leave it closed, laced tight, for her lover to undo. Too clear a trail and the fun is gone.
Her room is small, white walls and worn wood floors, a bed pushed into a corner. She'd learned to walk without a sound, but when she sat on the bed, its rusting metal frame always groaned. At night, when it was her and her father and his steel-boned belt, the grating sound was a willing tormenter, burrowing into her head and mocking her screams. When she was with Shaw, the squeak of old springs was a supportive audience, building with her moans and lifting her to her finish.
She lays down, her faded quilt stuffed with secrets and soft beneath her long, brown hair. The view of the ceiling above her pillow is as familiar as the inside of her closet doors and she counts the small spots of mold that shape a constellation of sadness and relief.
The sound of heavy footfalls trying to be quiet drifts into her room with the taste of salt and she rises onto her elbows, breath already quickening with anticipation. Her dark-haired lover stands in the doorway, eyes dark and skin pale with salt. Her boots fall to the ground with thumps and a second later, her socks silently join them. Shaw licks her chapped lips and enters the room, strong forearms bare beneath rolled up sleeves.
There are no words between the two of them as Shaw climbs onto the bed, her damp woolen pants scratching as they slide over sheets, and her knees push up Root's skirt as she moves to kiss her. Her kiss tastes like salt and death and love and damnation. Root knows that if their secret gets out, she is dead. Shaw is dead and Root is dead and they will live forever trapped in this tomb built for an unkind god.
Shaw's tongue pushes into Root's mouth and Root's body melts. Soft, wet heat pools between her legs and Shaw's rough, calloused hands fumble at the laces on her dress. Pulling away, Shaw glares down at the delicate string, face drawn in a scowl and Root laughs, the sound curling between them and lifting Shaw's eyes.
In them, Root sees her tragic lover. In hardened, lines around her eyes, Root sees the future and she runs her long, delicate hands up Shaw's bare forearms, over the fuzzy wool of her overcoat and hooks her fingers into the wide, limp lapels.
"Roll over, handsome lover," Root whispers into Shaw's mouth, guiding her to the side, pushing her down, and climbing on top of her. "I have to take care of my war torn sailor."
Shaw stares up at Root and wonders how so fragile a creature could look into the abyss and see a place of refuge. There is never a moment outside of this bed that Shaw feels real, but when Root helps her struggle out of her coat, when the heavy wool hits the floor with a clumsy thud, when her skin puckers in the cold air, she feels human.
The sensation of Root's hands under her shirt, against her too-rough skin, makes Shaw's eyes roll back in her head and she sucks in air that is not salty enough for her weathered lungs. Root's wet mouth drags along the sensitive skin of her stomach, promising the worst kinds of torture, and Shaw moans into the almost empty room.
Root pushes the cotton that holds her breasts higher on her chest and Shaw lets her eyes drift closed. When she was robbed of her emotions, she was blessed in her physical form and Root's teeth on her breast make her cry out, the metal bed echoing her cries. It is too much, Root's teeth feel too good and her eyes are too kind, and Shaw pushes her away.
Root retreats, her hair and dress wild as she curls into herself back pushed against the wall to which her bed is bolted. Her eyes are scared and, for a moment, Shaw feels like the monster she knows owns this house, but Root's lips turn up and her tongue peeks out and Shaw presses forward, removing the space between them.
Pulling Shaw's shirt off, pulling her bra off, unhooking her soft, cloth belt and forcing her out of her pants, Root whimpers, her heart beating loud enough for Shaw to hear. Root watches as Shaw rips the laces out of her bodice, her legs spread wide, not caring about god or decency or anything, but the need to feel Shaw's fingers inside of her.
Finally, her dress is open, her breasts are bare, and Shaw's mouth is back on hers. Their chests press together, Root's soft and Shaw's firm, and Root's world narrows to their point of contact. Shaw's mouth pushes Root's head to the side, her lips and teeth follow a path to her shoulders and down to her chest.
Root's head hits the wall with a painful smack when Shaw takes a nipple into her mouth. When they live together on the sea, they will never wear clothes. Their skin will turn to leather in the salt and they will make love beneath the stars. Root's body grows hotter and her need grows stronger.
She grabs Shaw's hand and guides it under her dress, pushing her soft cotton undergarments aside, making her intentions clear. Shaw grins at her, leaning close, her face tilting down to linger in front of Root's own. Carefully, her fingers trace their way between Root's legs, making her groan into the still air, her teeth biting her lip and pulling it into her mouth. Her eyes float shut and she gasps.
The cold wall at her back seems to suck her in as she sucks Shaw in and when Shaw's mouth finds her own, Root tries her hardest to open her eyes, but it is all too much and she lets herself drown in the salty ocean of her tragic lover.
Shaw watches Root as she moves, pushing inside of her and curling her fingers. There is no alcohol as intoxicating as the sound and view and feel of Root, in front of her and under her. She runs her free hand across Root's cheek, drags her thumb over Root's mouth, slips inside when Root gasps.
There is only the sound of Root's pants, and whimpers and moans, and the familiar scrape of the metal bed. She removes her hand from Root's mouth, moving it down, gently running her nails over Root's breasts. A bruise peeks around her side and Shaw grinds her teeth together; there will come a day when that failure of a priest that lives in this house would meet the maker whose words he twisted.
Her voice is as rusty as her boat or this bed, but Shaw drops her mouth to Root's head, listens to the growl in her throat. Root's breath hitches and Shaw knows what that means, what the desperate scratch of her voice and the tightening grip of her hands on Shaw's back means.
"I'm going to love you," Shaw's voice rasps, painful with disuse. "I'm going to spend my life trying to love you."
With a scream, torn from the throat of a woman familiar, Root's body convulses. Her toes dig into the sheets under them, her nails break skin on Shaw's back and her breasts push forward. Shaw stays inside of her, keeps her mouth pressed to Root's pulse, lets Root buck against her.
The ocean is a tumultuous mistress and during storms, Shaw thinks of Root and the chaos of her coming undone and, sometimes, Shaw is sure she can hear Root's scream in the deafening crack of thunder. Like sailing out of a storm into still waters, Root's body quiets and calms and settles and Shaw gently releases her grip.
She watches as Root's eyes flutter open, her cheeks red with fever, her lips dark from kissing. She stares at Shaw for a moment, unfocused and uncertain. Shaw waits patiently for the sense to return in Root's face and the ringing in her ears to subside.
Root takes calming breaths, trying to slow her heart and focus on Shaw. She swallows hard, throat rough from use, her body sweating. Another moment and she will be ready. Root licks her lips, tasting the salt from her lover's mouth like a prayer and a promise and a curse, and sighs, happy.
She moves closer, pushing her mouth against Shaw's, ready to take care of her dark-haired, blood-soaked tragic lover. A noise outside of her room makes her freeze and her blood run cold, her body tense, all semblance of peace or freedom or happiness lost.
The front door closes with a loud warning bang and Root shoots off the bed, knocks Shaw to the side, slams her door shut. She spins with panicked eyes, her too small linen dress hanging open at her waist, her legs still shaking from her orgasm, her eyes still not fully focused.
There is nowhere to hide, this room has no windows, and her father is on his way upstairs. He's home early and Root knows this means the time lost at work will be made up for in skin. The closet is Root's evening cage and there is nowhere to hide another body when both doors are open. She stares at Shaw, afraid and certain that their end has come.
Shaw is dressing, her belt clinking as she buckles it over her shirt and Root wonders if she worries about decency in death. They have sinned, as women, as harlots, as denouncers of god. Her father's steps are loud on the stairs, there are no pretenses hidden in the thunk of his boots or the slap of his belt in his hands.
Fully dressed, but for her coat, Shaw approaches her, hands outstretched, fingers nimble as they pull her arms through the linen bodice, as they lace her up, as they hold Root's face between them. Shaw pushes onto her toes and presses a kiss to Root's sweating forehead.
The doorknob rattles against Root's back and Shaw moves to the side, seemingly unafraid. Root whispers a prayer to a god that cannot possibly care and races to her bed, jumping onto the faded, soft sheets, curling into the corner of the room, the bed screaming a reprimand for her sin. She holds her breath as the door creaks open.
Her father is tall, taller than she is, and twice as wide. His eyes are empty, like a lighthouse with no keeper, a mockingly unhelpful artifact. He wields his belt like a whip, the silver buckle almost trailing the floor, still stained with the blood of a thousand beatings. The lifeless holes where his eyes should be sweep the room and Root watches his nose turn up.
It must smell, Root thinks, like salt and sex and freedom, like Shaw's promise to love her, like her desperation to take care of her dark-souled lover. The floor behind him creaks and he turns, Root is too paralyzed to speak, to warn Shaw, to throw herself at the mercy of her jailer, and he sees the woman who has seduced his daughter into sin.
Root waits for him to launch at Shaw, but instead he screams, the deep bass of his voice makes her whole body quake, and he turns back to her. Three steps and he can grab her hair, dragging her off the bed, to the floor, across his feet. Root is screaming, she can't hear it, but she knows, she is screaming in pain and fear and hatred.
His arm rises above his head, the belt buckle swings above Root's face, she reaches out for Shaw's coat on the floor, her hand closing around something cold. She moves and, suddenly, it is wet. Root is soaking wet, like she's standing on the edge of a cliff in the rain, waiting to drown or plummet to her death, and it tastes like metal and fire and hell. She rolls over, pushes herself onto her knees and her hands, something cold in her grip. There is a crash beside her and all she can see is red.
It's blood, she realizes, pouring from her father's throat, and she stares down at his eyes and thinks that there is no difference. A hand tugs her to her feet and arms wrap around her and Root cries with her head thrown back, screams into the constellation on her ceiling. It's over. Her test is over and she isn't sure if she's passed, but she's finally free, fully free, and as she drops Shaw's fishermen's knife to the ground, she smiles.
Her father's blood soaks her dress and her skin and she thinks she must match her blood-soaked lover. Perhaps this is finally a sacrifice the wind and ocean will accept. Shaw pulls away from her, unconcerned about the blood on herself, and looks her over. There is no damage to Root's body, only to her immortal soul, and so Shaw nods, declares it a victory.
She offers a hand, clean and calloused and solid, and Root takes it, laces their fingers together, affirms their promise. Root leads them out of the room, passed Shaw's boots, down the stairs, out the front door. She leaves it open. There is nothing in this house worth stealing.
At the gate, Root hesitates. She has never been beyond this fence, never walked the path to the town, never stepped on the pier. There is no way to jump from the house on the hill to the ocean, though she has dreamed of one many times. Shaw steps around her.
"We have to run," Shaw rasps, voice like salt and sorrow. "The sand will want to keep us."
Root nods and she swallows and she takes a deep breath. "Let's go."
"You don't want to look back?" Shaw asks, already opening the gate, her other hand still tangled in Root's.
"I can't," Root answers in a whisper. "I have wished too long for the sea to turn to salt on a hill."
Shaw doesn't smile, but she leads them out of the gate. They take a deep breath and start running for the ocean.