Beckoned
Oppressive heat.
My hair sticks to the back of my neck. I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead, and dry my hands on my thighs. I can barely feel my thighs.
Heart racing. Heart slowing.
The tears build from inside my soul, to the acid of my stomach, up into my throat. I try to stop them there, to push down the choke of a sob, or the whimper of my pain, but my throat grows heavy with the burden. I can’t prevent it for that much longer.
I can feel my face tense and warm. My cheeks are numb. Pressing my hands to my face does nothing to revive the feeling.
Stumbling, I exit the house quietly. The party is loud enough that the click of the front door is completely unnoticed.
The fresh air kisses my face as a way of greeting. It cools me down, and beckons me onward.
Come with us I imagine tiny, high-pitched voices saying to me. I am I want to whisper back.
Salt air fills my lungs. I try to slowly breathe it in.
In…and out.
Swaying…swaying…swaying…
I know that if sirens were real, they would easily ensnare me into their trap. As soon as the melody would find its way into my ears, I’d be dead.
My feet aren’t callused enough to protect against the poorly paved street. Pinpricks of rocks stab the bottoms of my feet. I don’t care. My body is already numb from the alcohol.
I hear cars in the distance, zipping by. The cars sound like crashing waves across the highway, but that’s not enough to satiate me.
I’m getting closer, I know that I am.
I touch my face. Ripples of water. Puddles. My tears have robbed me of my sight, and have been replaced by streams. A newly discovered river.
The only way out is through––the only way out is forward. A mantra that belongs on a cheesy gym wall.
I’m starting to care about my feet. They hurt. I’m not sure how much longer I can take this.
Forward.
There’s a small giddiness inside my heart, knowing that no one knows I’ve left. This secret that I have with myself. Daring.
But there’s a part of me that is a little shocked that no one has come after me yet. Do people’s lives really continue without me there?
I guess so.
Onward.
Suddenly, softness. Finally, a reprieve. It's now my feet’s turn to cry, but this time it is the ecstasy of comfort and the beauty of the sand, rather than drunken sadness. I’ll never be able to appreciate the sand in the same way that my feet do.
Bright moonlight serves as my guide up the dunes, and onto the beach. The scene unfolds in front of me like a storybook. An entire beach. My own private beach.
Grabbing at my hair and blowing on my face, the wind gets louder and louder the deeper into the darkness I go.
Slowly, the waves are revealed to me, as they throw themselves violently onto the shoreline. There are the small ones that bob up and down, shaped by the wind. There’s the big ones that build and build until they completely dump down in a second. There’s the medium ones, that either disappear, or crumble into white water.
I will myself to not fall into the sand, and to not vomit. Part of me wants to jump into the water, and fully submerge in the cold.
Instead, I sit down, knowing for a fact that when I stand up the sensation is going to be horrifying. But that problem doesn’t exist presently. In the distance, lightning strikes provide another source of light. I should be concerned by this, but I’m not.
Not satisfied with my sitting position, I lay down, pushing my body further into the sand, staring up at the night sky. My hair tangles itself into the ground, but I don’t mind. I just want to sink deeper into the earth, into the ocean.
Now that I’m finally alone, that I was dramatic enough to bring myself here, to ostracize myself from the party, no one to witness this scene but the wind and the moon and the ocean, I can’t cry.