I wish it would rain.

I don’t mean the slow, dripping rain that constantly falls on Anchorhead. I mean the cleansing power of a torrential downpour, one that will wash away the mud and filth that accumulates in the town’s streets. Maybe I actually wish that other things would be washed away with the refuse…

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind Anchorhead that much, and not at all compared to some people. There are even a few things that I like about this dreary Atlantic Port town. Still, there is a certain atmosphere of despair, and you can definitely see it in other people’s eyes. Almost everyone has that beaten down, hopeless look. It’s as if they know that they’ll never get away from this bleak landscape – that there is a tomorrow, and it will be the same as today and yesterday.

As I quickly stride across the rocky ground that borders the ocean, my eyes drift toward the building ahead.

Built over 100 years ago, the Anchorhead lighthouse is a derelict remembrance of better days. At one point, the town was a bustling fishing port, home to so many ships that the lighthouse was built to guide them to safety during storms.

Then, along came the spider…

Marius Baldwin built the first factory in 1910, scarcely a year after he arrived in town, and offered employment to fishermen who wanted to ‘grab the opportunity’. Foolishly, they sold their boats and began work in the factories, never realizing that Anchorhead would slowly twist itself into a bitter shadow of what it once was.

Grunting a little, I heft open the tiny cellar door that lies covered in weeds at the south side of the lighthouses base. I barely fit in, but for an eighteen year old, I’m remarkably thin. Moving confidently in the familiar dark, I begin the long twisting climb up the lighthouses insides.

Now, thanks to the fact that the Baldwin’s employ nearly every able-bodied person, Alexander Baldwin is guaranteed to win the mayoral election every year. Consequently, as long as the Baldwin line endures, Anchorhead will remain a grey inhospitable place, covered in black smoke that billows from the factories.

At long last I mount the final step and find myself in the crumbling control room that leads to the observation deck. Every time I come here, my mind creates a vivid image of what it must have looked like in its prime: from the slowly turning beacon light to the watchman’s desk, which would be covered in maps and papers. Now: the beacon light is rusted into place, and the desk has long since rotted away.

I make my way out onto the deck, a five-foot projection that makes its way around the entire lighthouse. For a moment I lean cautiously on the rusted railing, staring out to sea. Below me, massive grey - green billows crash into the cliff side, sending plumes of white spray into the air. No matter how many times I see it, the sheer immensity of the ocean intrigues, intimidates me.

I remember how, as a child, I would constantly ask my mother to tell me about my father, and how he claimed that my green grey eyes reminded him of the ocean’s waves. She would look away for a moment, then tell me the story all over again, in that strange voice I could barely recognize.

Absently I slide the caps off of my binoculars and point them out towards the ocean, scanning the horizon.

Nothing.

With a sigh, I take a few steps around the deck and look homeward, towards the town. I can easily see the factories, the town hall and the tavern – basically the most important buildings in Anchorhead. Shifting east, I can make out the forlorn, empty docks.

I lower the binoculars, biting back a curse. Screwing the caps back onto the lenses, I begin to make my way around the deck, wondering why I come to the lighthouse every day. What am I really looking for?

Then, I enter the control room.

And my heart nearly stops.

Standing with one hand resting casually on the beacon is a girl, looking straight at me without so much as blinking. Her shoulder length raven coloured hair blows about freely. For an unending instant, I stare at her like some gawking tourist.

“Merrill Hamlin?”

Her voice, soft but clear, rends the air. At last I can speak and move again.

“Yes,” I answer slowly, giving her a more critical examination. “How do you know my name?”

She smiles enigmatically.

“Just a good guess actually. There aren’t too many young people in this town.”

I can see now that she must be from one of the neighbouring towns – her clothes, though well fitting, are worn and old, betraying her humanity. Despite their despair, no one in Anchorhead is poor.

“You aren’t from around here,” I comment mildly, slowly recovering my usual calm demeanour that I wear around others. “Have you just moved in?”

She nods quickly. “Yes, I’m staying with my uncle on Sedgeway Drive. My parents passed away a week ago, so I had to leave Morristown.”

My hand tightens on the leather strap of the binocular case.

“A week ago?”

“Hmmm…yes, exactly a week actually.”

Revulsion threatens to overcome me.

“I suppose that must be quite hard for you,” I finally manage.

“Oh not at all,” she replies breezily. “My uncles place is much nicer, although as a rule, I must say that this town is a hole.”

The revulsion turns to anger, and before I know it, I’ve brushed past her and am descending the lighthouse stairs, three steps at a time.

I run the entire way home.