The Annihilating God
A short story
He found her wandering the shore, ambling along with a wobbly step that was somehow both clumsy and careful. She seemed to intuitively weave her way through juts of rock and shards of shell yet her eyes never grazed the ground. Amused, he realized that some part of her knew she had walked this stretch before but she couldn’t place where it was. He watched her eyes sweep up into the starlit night and cast their net over the sea, never quite registering the name of the place that didn’t have one. The sound on the tip of her tongue would never materialize into a word, but her feet remembered where the hazards were as she made her way down the beach.
As expected, she stopped when she reached the site where her pilings had first been placed. Once the start of a lengthy pier outward, now only two thick logs remained against the ever-present turbulence of the wind and water. He waited a long moment before he announced his presence, savoring the quiet calm that he was about to shatter. Her eyes were vacant, fixed on some point far off from where she found herself. Her pale hand rested lightly on the post, fingers stroking the grooves of the wood thoughtfully. He knew she was again struck by nameless familiarity and, in the absence of the words that would not come, was focusing on the physical reality of what was firm beneath her fingers.
He neither hated or loved what was about to happen. It was simply time to complete what had been underway since the first pile of this pier was toppled and sucked back into deep water.
“Hello,” he spoke simply. Had this encounter happened weeks, or even days, ago, the sudden presence of someone else would have shattered her reverie. She may have shrieked, or jumped, or have otherwise shown surprise. There were no surprises left.
She slowly moved her head from the sea to where he stood. Despite the lengthening shadows she knew who he was, though not why either of them found themselves staring at the other.
“Hello,” she returned.
Silence fell again, punctuated only by the rhythmic lapping of the waves as it rushed over the sand and splashed up at the wood as the last two posts began to creak and waver.
He closed the distance between them and stood at her side. They turned and faced the water together, him fixing his gaze at the far reach where the sky became indistinguishable from the sea. He breathed deeply as she exhaled in counterpoint.
“It’s the strangest thing,” she said in a small voice, “I can’t remember my name.”
“That will pass when you leave here.”
“Will it?” She knew that it was not a question and that he would not respond. A frothy crest broke over their feet. Water licked up her legs as her toes sank into the sand. The water drew her outward, each racing grain of sand scuttling over and past her skin. The remaining pilings groaned as wood splintered. She turned to face him. He did not turn.
“Do you know my name?”
“For now.”
“What is it?”
He sighed and continued to stare out over the water, “A reply would only prolong things.”
A chilled panic trickled through her, veiled by exasperation. “Prolong what,” she spat. “What is this? Where am I?”
He finally turned to face her, and she felt all warmth drain from her, replaced by damp goose flesh. She knew his name.
Over the sound of the waves a crack and splash erupted; another piling gone.
Her shallow breaths were barely audible as she shivered next to him. He had again turned from her to face the water.
“One can’t preserve every detail of every thing, every one, indefinitely,” he explained in a calm and measured voice. Somehow his words were strong and clear without rising to the volume of the water’s roar. “There simply isn’t enough shoreline.”
“Not even a name,” she whispered, “not even someone’s name?”
“Some names.”
“Why have I lost mine?”
“You haven’t; you’ll find it again out there,” he gave a nod to the horizon. He crouched down and ran his fingers through the water, continuing to speak evenly, “Not every drop is named, see? You couldn’t pluck one out and distinguish it from the rest.”
Her face burned, feverish in the chill. Hot, salty tears trickled down her face and dropped into the water. Indistinguishable.
He rose up again and faced her as the last piling cracked like a gunshot and toppled. He had no more words to say.
Furious, she demanded one last answer. “How is it,” she churned through gritted teeth, “that your name is EROS?”
Was that a grin she saw streak across his face? A glimmer of teeth, bared? It was hard to tell in the deepening twilight.
“Not Eros, love,” he said, not insincerely, and then raised his voice so that she would be sure to finally understand, “Erosion.”
Silence fell upon them both. The waves lapped, unabated.
