The wind had picked up, the night had grown cooler but she hadn't even noticed. The revolving light from the lighthouse played on her face, a face devoid of expression. Her mind was engaged, the voices in her head a jumble. As the voices grew louder and came faster her face began to change. Her mind was running the gamut, her life flashing before her eyes.

A child of five and her first day at school, her mother's voice, "Stop your sniveling and whining. You are going to school on the bus, you don't need me."

Her father chiming in, "I could take her on my way to work."

Mother snapping back, "That's what is wrong with her, you are always pampering her."

"For Pete's sake Ann, she's scared, she needs one of us."

She remembered her mother's eyes, the contempt in her voice, "Don't you think it's time you went to work? I will handle this."

She looked at her father and silently pleaded, "Help me Daddy, please."

Her father's look of defeat and shame as he silently stood up and left the room. She began to cry, to beg him to come back. The sharp slap across her mouth as she was told to shut up. Her mother literally dragging her to the bus stop, begging was useless, it only brought more punishment. Mother was good at meting out punishment, physical and mental.

Her eyes welled with tears, her head tipped to the side as she willed the vision to go away. It left, fading into the background only to be replaced by another. She was eight, they were arguing again or her mother was. Her mother's shrill voice, haranguing her father and his quiet responses. Her father, a gentle, kind soul who made the misfortune of marrying a woman like her mother. A bitter, hateful woman who used her tongue as a weapon. Her favorite sport was tearing her husband to shreds, belittling people was second nature to her.

Now she ran in the room and climbed in her father's lap, her small arms around his neck. "Oh yes, run to your father." Mother's voice was practically dripping with sarcasm, "She's your daughter Walter; weak, pathetic, spineless. She will end up a loser, just like you."

She could feel her father's arms as they tightened around her, his soft whisper in her ear. He carried her to bed, dried her tears and told her a story. Downstairs Mother was still ranting, something about the house being a dump. After her father tucked her in and left, her mother's voice rose again and she buried her head in the pillow.

"Go away, ' she whispered. "I hate you."

The image faded and she stood quickly, moving to the lighthouse she put her face against its' rough surface. The cold of the stone felt good on her flushed skin. Her eyes felt gritty, she hadn't slept for days. The voices wouldn't let her, they just kept talking and talking. How long had she been out here? Time was meaningless to her now, she had to wait. Sitting on the blanket she picked up the sandwich and took a bite. The bread was hard, it had been sitting there for hours and she tossed it aside. Hunger was the least of her problems, food had no appeal. She curled up in the blanket, trying to stop the images in her head. No use; they flooded her brain. A raging torrent of memories which wouldn't be denied anymore.

Walking home at fourteen, hand in hand with her first boyfriend. She wasn't popular, her clothes the cheapest her mother could buy. Her mother bought clothes for durability not fashion, she could still hear the whispers and laughs of the other girls as she walked past. Her shyness had been a problem too, her inability to communicate on any level with her peers. Oh Mother had done her job well; she had made her feel beneath contempt. A pitiful excuse for a person until she met him. He was as shy as her and she knew it took all of his courage to approach her. They struck up a friendship, allies against everyone. They ate their lunches under the old tree on the school grounds and she felt herself opening up. Their relationship was innocent, holding hands as they walked, shy glances at each other. Then a chaste kiss, over quickly but it lingered in her mind. For the first time in her life she was happy, she waited for school days and she found she could laugh.

Like everything else in her life it ended; Mother saw to that. She showed up at the school yard, her face distorted with anger. She would never forget the humiliation, the shame she felt. Her mother's tirade went on and on, endless, incessant. He tried to explain but her mother was having none of it. He was banished from her life; she was alone again. From that day on her mother picked her up at school. She needn't have worried, after her mother's performance everyone steered clear of her.

The summer of her sixteenth birthday her father died; a beaten man. She knew his heart had died years ago, her mother had killed it. Standing by his coffin she looked at his face, her eyes dry... no tears came. She realized she had no love left for this man, he let it happen. He let Mother abuse her all these years and she felt no pain; no sorrow. With her father dead she was the complete focus of her mother's wrath. Life became worse if such a thing was possible. She counted the days until her eighteenth birthday, it finally meant her freedom.

College was the start of a whole new life for her... or so she had thought. She was away from her mother and for the first time in her life she could relax. There was no one to constantly hound her, to strip her of her pride and dignity. At first it was a simple pleasure, peace and quiet even in the hustle and bustle of college life. Her time was her own, her life her own. She spent a lot of time in the library; her passion was books. She loved lighthouses, seeing them as beacons of hope. She poured over books about them, the pictures represented what she wanted most in her life... solitude.

That is where she first saw Nicholas. She had found an old book on shipwrecks and sea captains. His face seemed to leap from the page, his very presence dynamic. She poured over the story again and again. His ship, caught in a storm and lost at sea. The words no survivors... no survivors... no survivors, they rang in her ears. She traced the outline of his face with her finger, dark eyes that held her in their grip. His thick black hair, strong jaw and an aquiline nose, they were all part of a man of decision and action. She didn't know how she knew, this was a man of fierce passions. Everywhere she went she saw his face, he occupied her waking moments. She told herself he died over a hundred years ago but he was achingly real to her. He was an unseen force that consumed her body and soul. She memorized the scant amount of knowledge she could find on him. He had already been to sea half of his life by the time of his death at thirty-four.