Fiction

Beach - Joseph Francesco Taft Cesare

Three triplet brothers are the sole occupants of a rocky, sandless Beach which is, itself, very much alive. The cold Atlantic tide pulls at the rocks, causing a deafeningly thunderous rumble as they are pulled end over end into the relentless waves. The ocean spits, with each hissing breath, into the wind. It becomes sickly salty and looms heavily with frigid moisture. The thin tasteless air back home now seems pointless, and blank, in stark contrast.

These three identical brothers are easily considered abnormal, even for triplets.
Abe, the eldest was born without sight.
Adam the middle child cannot hear.
The youngest, Enoch, never spoke a word his whole life.
In academic, sporting and social pursuits they were able to work as a cohesive unit. As a result, they never lacked respect in their community. Although they were never truly alone, they always knew what it was to be lonely, shying away from the community’s watchful eye. But here, in the Beach’s literal solitude, the salty air is made sweet. The caustic bite of the incoming cold front is dulled. The rocks become less jagged.
The stones being dragged in by the tides rumble on. However, now in mocking imitation to the thunder which rolls in with measured restraint, from the clouds above downward.

Enoch, who never spoke a word, is the only of the brothers to see the knife as furious Beach roars in his ears. He is captivated by the shimmering blade. Doesn’t scream. Can’t. He dies watching the distorted reflection of the sea in the now crimson blade of a knife freshly drawn from his jugular. It moves slowly towards his brother. He doesn’t see it coming. Can’t.

It’s true that when one sense is deadened another thrives. However, in the din of electricity, even Abe hears neither slice, gurgle, nor thump as his brother’s blood is let to be absorbed by gravelly Beach. The knife has already blown through Abe’s throat like sharp breeze, and Beach is clinging to the blood on his fingers around his neck, when he hears it: The slow, steady crunches of gravel becoming fainter with distance. They move inexorably towards his only living brother, who is surely gazing at the setting sun over the Atlantic.

And the sunset is beautiful and surreal, like a postcard from hell with love. Adam too is cut and let to bleed out like bred cattle. Past gleaming metal he can see what were once his brothers; now stilled. They don’t move. Can’t. Are damned to the realm of inanimate object. It is only he who has the vantage point in which to see the puzzle pieces as they fit into place, that in stepping backward show a greater, almost beautiful picture of their demise. The southwest wind runs its salty, now tainted fingers through his hair as, long seconds later, he takes his last breath, not hearing apologies never made; not even thinking about the knife.