I have no memory of how I arrived in this place.
I was not born here and call none among the souls of this island kin.
I have memories of a life before, clouded memories half remembered, as if viewed through the same fog that persists to shroud this isle without hope. I was a child, and then a man, and then a father. Then. Then there was a light, and a darkness.
Then, I was here.
I have no memory of how I arrived in this place.
I remember not being of the sea; I did not sail here, I am sure, no sailor I.
I have memories of barren moorlands and open skies, not the crash of waves. Spray and salt are alien to me even now as I walk these unforgiving coastal paths. The glow of seaweed and the stink of rotting things not known to me sparks no glimmer of remembrance.
And yet I am here.
I have no memory of how I arrived at this place.
I walk among the folk of this island and know them not.
I am greeted by none, and none know my name. Most do not see me, their gaze passes through me, I am as nothing to them. Others, though, they cast their eye upon my visage and fear. I know not what they fear, for no surface shows me a reflection of my own.
I am here.
I have no memory of how I arrived at this place.
I have no memory of my death; save I did not die here.
I am dead. I haunt this isle among the living and see not the sun, nor remember where I go in the times I am elsewhere. I feel their fear and taste the joy of it. I know not why it tastes of joy, of the iron in their veins and the salt of their blood.
I am hungry…
Words by Mark Hayes
Photo illustration by Keith Errington