Engraved In Sand))) [Kiara]

It's been awhile since my dad has been home. Ever since the day he beat me to nothing but a bloody pulp and then staggered out the door into the night he hasn't been home. But am I worried about the man who drinks himself to death, killed my mother, and does nothing but beat me and drug me until I can't tell if I'm even alive of not? Yes, of course I do. He's my dad. And if I don't have him, then who do I have? The windows in my house have never been open - probably haven't been cleaned since after mom died - but today is a different day. My fingers grasp at the locks that have held everything in for so long. The smell of liquor, blood, and urine. The sound of screaming, crying, and begging. The taste of sorrow and pain and even death itself. I push up on the metal window frame, using as much force as I can muster, until it slowly begins to stutter open, bit by bit. I clench my teeth as the metal digs into my hands and my bruised arms cry out for relief from the strain I have forced upon them. But I can't stop. I can't let the nightmares of this house race through my mind forever. I can't. The window slams against the frame, reaching it's limit, and I breathe in the air that wafts into the house, bringing the scent of sand and salt and ocean. Cool air hits my face, drying the beads of sweat on my upper lip and forehead, effectively getting me to close my eyes and enjoy the bliss. Give me the ocean and I shall rule the world.

I smell fish frying in and laughter and I find myself remembering the the only time I had ever gotten to eat fish. It was the middle of the night, warm breeze just waiting for us to come and great it on the sandy shore outside our little house. The stars sparkled in the sky, the ocean raced up and down the shore, and only a few boats dotted the horizon line. I was only just six, but I can still see it. A child doesn't forget the only time they saw their mother smile. She took me to the docks, giving me the choice at which fish I thought I might want to eat. I vaguely remember crinkling my nose and making a face before I pick one of the ugliest ones of the bunch. But mother had said it was a good choice, one of her very favorites from when she was younger. We gathered driftwood along the shoreline after that, which was really quite strenuous considering I had to stop and pick up every seashell I saw, too. And then I watched my mother create a fire from almost nothing. She showed me how to descale a fish and pick out the good parts and then we cooked it right over the fire. At the time, I had hated the smell, wondered how anyone could even think of bringing something that smelled so disgusting to their lips. But then I tried it, after much resistance, and found myself wanting more. But we only had money for one fish and nothing to trade either. So instead, we lay out on the beach, making sand angels and naming every constellation in the sky until the sun rose and turned the dark blue ocean into a sparkling sheet of orange. And that was the best memory of my childhood that I can remember.

Before I even realize it, I find myself turning away from the window and bounding barefoot down the front steps. The sand on my feet almost makes me smile. Almost, but not quite. The tiny grains stick to my feet and rub in between my toes with every stride I take, but the feeling couldn't be more welcome. I weave my way through rows and rows of beach house, not slowing down for anything. I pass an elderly lady sitting in a chair swing, a little boy carrying too many fish, and so many fisherman that I can't even count them. Some stare as I pass but most pay me no attention, too preoccupied with other thoughts to care about some barefoot girl with tangled hair and a bruised face. I find myself running out onto the beach and up onto a wooden dock lined with boat after boat after boat and filled with so many people that I have to dodge and duck under every arm and leg and plank that swings at my head. Until finally, I slow to a stop at the very edge of the dock. I look out at the crowded harbor listen. Captains calling, first mate pulling at ropes, young boys running across the decks, men laughing and opening up a few bottles of beer. All of them sailing away into the ocean. How lucky they are. Each of them gets to sail away from their worries everyday. Leave them on shore for us land-dwellers to pick up. I sigh and look down. My toes jut out over the edge of the pier and I curl them down to grasp the edge, as if my foot could somehow turn instantly into a hand. I look down past my feet and into the dark blue depths below. I resist the urge to get down and beg.

Swallow me, blue waters. Swallow me whole. Fill my lungs with your salt and sand until I drown. Then hold me forever in your sweet embrace, and never again let me resurface to the nightmares.

Instead I sit at the edge, letting my feet dangle and my face turn to the breeze. I close my eyes, letting my other senses swallow me up and take control. And for the first time in a very long time, I can feel the edges of my lips perk up ever so subtly. Some days, just some, I am glad I am alive.