storm clouds rolling in [kiah]
Sept 29, 2015 13:29:36 GMT -5
Post by arx on Sept 29, 2015 13:29:36 GMT -5
« ♒Annora Krearns♒ »
District 4 - Sixteen - Of The Sea
Mom told me this morning that she wanted some seashells. When I asked her why she only shook her head, her eyes brighter than I had seen them in quite some time. "It's a surprise, darling." And before I could protest, she kissed me on the forehead, the tubes on her face pressing against my skin, burning red hot. But when she pulled away I made sure to smile for her sake. I just nodded and resigned to the fact that I would come home with no money today.
And now I'm walking along the beach, scouring the sand for the most interesting shells I can find. I feel like I am 6 years old again. I can remember when I was little and my mom was still healthy and she would bring me down to the beach. She was even strong enough to carry me on her shoulders then. Now she can barely walk. The bitter part of me tosses shells angrily into the sea, crunches them underfoot, but the grateful part of me - undoubtedly much, much smaller than the angry portion - smiles at the ocean and dreams of the past where everything was still okay.
I walk along the shore and the water washes up around my feet, droplets splashing on my knees as I continue as I kick at the waves like the orphan children further down the beach. I have to fight the instinct to reach for my mother's hand. It's been so long since we have been here together and still I am reaching for her hand - a hand that will never be there again, not as long as she is still sick. Which according to the doctors will be forever. Even as she rots in her grave the sickness will follow her. I can only hope that when she finally leaves, her soul will not be infected and she can fly away to heaven and escape from the illness that has tied her down.
I hear thunder rumble distantly and as I watch the skyline I can see lightning flashing in the sky - I smile. The air is still cool, the sun not yet reaching over the horizon or bursting through the foreboding clouds in the distance. The rolling ocean looks black, the sand looks dull, but the bag full of seashells sparkles and shines so brightly I am sure that I have a mermaid's scale hidden within the pile of shells. The books under my bed told me they shine brighter than even the sun. My mom told me that's why my skin looks like it is glowing in the dark. And I used to believe her - I really did - but ever since childhood innocence left me, I could not make myself believe the stories I once had.
The Greek goddesses of the sea, the mermaids and sirens and sea serpents ... all of my belief in fairy tales and myths is gone. Except I still believe in the brightness of the mermaid scales. Because even on the darkest days, there are always bright flashes of hope.
Thunder rumbles again and a gust of wind tells me the storm is getting closer, but I keep searching for shells. My bag is already stuffed full, but I know that if I come back with anything less than a hundred shells my mother will be disappointed. Her little project may be a secret, but I still know her. She enjoys the extravagant. And so I sit at the high tide line amongst piles upon piles of shells, and search for the prettiest ones as the impending storm threatens overhead.
And now I'm walking along the beach, scouring the sand for the most interesting shells I can find. I feel like I am 6 years old again. I can remember when I was little and my mom was still healthy and she would bring me down to the beach. She was even strong enough to carry me on her shoulders then. Now she can barely walk. The bitter part of me tosses shells angrily into the sea, crunches them underfoot, but the grateful part of me - undoubtedly much, much smaller than the angry portion - smiles at the ocean and dreams of the past where everything was still okay.
I walk along the shore and the water washes up around my feet, droplets splashing on my knees as I continue as I kick at the waves like the orphan children further down the beach. I have to fight the instinct to reach for my mother's hand. It's been so long since we have been here together and still I am reaching for her hand - a hand that will never be there again, not as long as she is still sick. Which according to the doctors will be forever. Even as she rots in her grave the sickness will follow her. I can only hope that when she finally leaves, her soul will not be infected and she can fly away to heaven and escape from the illness that has tied her down.
I hear thunder rumble distantly and as I watch the skyline I can see lightning flashing in the sky - I smile. The air is still cool, the sun not yet reaching over the horizon or bursting through the foreboding clouds in the distance. The rolling ocean looks black, the sand looks dull, but the bag full of seashells sparkles and shines so brightly I am sure that I have a mermaid's scale hidden within the pile of shells. The books under my bed told me they shine brighter than even the sun. My mom told me that's why my skin looks like it is glowing in the dark. And I used to believe her - I really did - but ever since childhood innocence left me, I could not make myself believe the stories I once had.
The Greek goddesses of the sea, the mermaids and sirens and sea serpents ... all of my belief in fairy tales and myths is gone. Except I still believe in the brightness of the mermaid scales. Because even on the darkest days, there are always bright flashes of hope.
Thunder rumbles again and a gust of wind tells me the storm is getting closer, but I keep searching for shells. My bag is already stuffed full, but I know that if I come back with anything less than a hundred shells my mother will be disappointed. Her little project may be a secret, but I still know her. She enjoys the extravagant. And so I sit at the high tide line amongst piles upon piles of shells, and search for the prettiest ones as the impending storm threatens overhead.
