Lochlann was an immigrant.
He had never remembered a time before traveling. His brother, Lawrence, had fond memories of the lochs and rivers between Ireland, Scottland, and the Isle of Man. Lochlann was presumably born in one of these locations but what he remembered most was the traveling.
He remembered being on the bottom of the Atlantic in the darkness. He remembered seeing strange creatures he had never seen before, of feeling the currents drag and pull him along through the waves like the rest of the herd. He remembered breaching as the sun rose and turned the entire ocean the color of fire. He remembered his shoulders bumping with dolphins.
He remembered coming to America. He remembered the first girl he killed on American soil and how sweet her blood tasted. He remembered moving up and down the east coast because he could not be stopped.
His family had a home and stables now. They’d been there several years, mostly because Lochlann had been here, or he was supposed to have bene here curbing his addictions.
But Lochlann was never at home in Ireland, or Scottland, or even his mother’s country of Wales. He was not at home in the Atlantic or in Virginia or Michian. The closets he felt to feeling home was when the tsunami came and pulled him into the water and he closed his eyes and said take me and the waves said shhhh, shhhhhhh.
Now he was here.
Again.
Rather than emerging from the ocean, Lochlann was stepping off a boat. He was, surprisingly, a little taller than he left. He was still thin but now he was more lean than starving. His hair fell over his ears and down to the nape of his neck in an indication that he’d had a haircut sometime recently, but not too recently. He carried no luggage but wore an old leather jacket that was used to being worn by someone else, someone whose shoulders were broader and whose arms were not as long.
Lochlann fumbled for a cigarette in his pocket. He plucked out a cheap lighter, flicked it open, and lit the end of his cigarette without stopping his pace. There was a new scar over the fingers of his left hand. He tapped the cigarette on it and let the ashes fall to the ground.
He was back.
Because he was back, Lochlann wondered what he was going to tell her. He couldn’t exactly lie to her, but Lochlann wasn’t sure how he could explain. He took a drag off his cigarette.
Sometimes, when he was gone, he would wake up in a cheap motel with a deep need. The bottom of his heart was an empty well and he was constantly trying to draw up the bucket. He would reach across the bed looking for her. Sometimes he could hold a pillow against his chest and pretend he could breathe in her shampoo.
That scared him. It scared him enough that he through himself wholeheartedly into his mission.
He was still thinking about her shampoo instead of what he was going to stay to her when he saw her.
He felt a flicker of something ripple like a skipped stone through his gut.
He did not say what he always said when he saw her. He did not let the words It’s you come out of his lips. He exhaled the smoke from his cigarette and looked at her.
He said, ”Guin.”
For the first time in his life, Lochlann felt like he was home.
He had never remembered a time before traveling. His brother, Lawrence, had fond memories of the lochs and rivers between Ireland, Scottland, and the Isle of Man. Lochlann was presumably born in one of these locations but what he remembered most was the traveling.
He remembered being on the bottom of the Atlantic in the darkness. He remembered seeing strange creatures he had never seen before, of feeling the currents drag and pull him along through the waves like the rest of the herd. He remembered breaching as the sun rose and turned the entire ocean the color of fire. He remembered his shoulders bumping with dolphins.
He remembered coming to America. He remembered the first girl he killed on American soil and how sweet her blood tasted. He remembered moving up and down the east coast because he could not be stopped.
His family had a home and stables now. They’d been there several years, mostly because Lochlann had been here, or he was supposed to have bene here curbing his addictions.
But Lochlann was never at home in Ireland, or Scottland, or even his mother’s country of Wales. He was not at home in the Atlantic or in Virginia or Michian. The closets he felt to feeling home was when the tsunami came and pulled him into the water and he closed his eyes and said take me and the waves said shhhh, shhhhhhh.
Now he was here.
Again.
Rather than emerging from the ocean, Lochlann was stepping off a boat. He was, surprisingly, a little taller than he left. He was still thin but now he was more lean than starving. His hair fell over his ears and down to the nape of his neck in an indication that he’d had a haircut sometime recently, but not too recently. He carried no luggage but wore an old leather jacket that was used to being worn by someone else, someone whose shoulders were broader and whose arms were not as long.
Lochlann fumbled for a cigarette in his pocket. He plucked out a cheap lighter, flicked it open, and lit the end of his cigarette without stopping his pace. There was a new scar over the fingers of his left hand. He tapped the cigarette on it and let the ashes fall to the ground.
He was back.
Because he was back, Lochlann wondered what he was going to tell her. He couldn’t exactly lie to her, but Lochlann wasn’t sure how he could explain. He took a drag off his cigarette.
Sometimes, when he was gone, he would wake up in a cheap motel with a deep need. The bottom of his heart was an empty well and he was constantly trying to draw up the bucket. He would reach across the bed looking for her. Sometimes he could hold a pillow against his chest and pretend he could breathe in her shampoo.
That scared him. It scared him enough that he through himself wholeheartedly into his mission.
He was still thinking about her shampoo instead of what he was going to stay to her when he saw her.
He felt a flicker of something ripple like a skipped stone through his gut.
He did not say what he always said when he saw her. He did not let the words It’s you come out of his lips. He exhaled the smoke from his cigarette and looked at her.
He said, ”Guin.”
For the first time in his life, Lochlann felt like he was home.