James Wicker approached the shoreline of Westport's beaches with a dark smirk of satisfaction. Each step in the sand left a mark, his last marks on the world. "It can't get any worse," he sighed as the waves licked at his toes, creeping up to his shins and to his thighs as he ventured deeper into his personal abyss. All was going according to plan and he would not back down again. Finally he had arrived at his destination, feet extended on the ocean floor allowing his last breaths. Upon submerging, he found oblivion, and therefore peace.
His life had crumbled since Penelope had fallen sick. Her illness did not reaffirm her love for her husband, but drove him away. She needed to experience the world and escape from the marriage that no longer carried any spark. No matter what James said, she had made up her mind. In their Maine cottage on a September evening,