Salt

It always comes back to webbing sprouting between your toes and the familiar ebb and pull of the tide charging your bloodstream. You lick your lips, tasting the sand that isn't there.

You knew there'd be a new moon out tonight, but you never expected it to be this strong, this forceful, this unrelenting in its command to look out the window at the seaweed-specked beach across the street. It whispers more silent, sibilant syllables, but you grit your teeth and look down at your dutiful cutting board, half a sliced tomato strewn across its wooden plains. You scrape the mutilated bits of vegetable into a bowl and bring the board to the sink, turning on the faucet to rinse it clean. Your fingers meet the stream of water without thinking, and you stiffen as the forty-five percent salt content seeps into your skin.

The cutting board drops with an indignant clatter and you grab the counter, head spinning with the water down the drain. Your hand shoots out and switches the water off. You raise your shaking fingers, newly linked with gauzy webbing, and look again out of the kitchen window. You lick your lips again and the silent sands beckon you out and away.

Just a taste. Just one. It couldn't hurt, after all.

You don't remember crossing your street or leaving your home or walking out the door, but your bare feet dig into the cool sand and you are now maybe five feet away from the darkened sea. Easily crossed in seven steps. No more, no less. You shiver because the infinite gaps between the waves look starving and you understand their hunger. The ocean's hunger. It will swallow you whole before you can take a breath to scream, and it is telling you to let it.

There is no moonlight. It is so, so dark.

Some sensible, solid part of your thirsty mind is shouting and flailing, the drowning swimmer in the shallow end of the community pool.

You can't give in, it tells you, throwing life preservers at you, hoping one of them will stick.
You have responsibilities.
 Throwing anything that floats.
A husband, children.
Children. (They don't float.)

You try and fail to remember their names, and realize this is not a choice.

The ocean is hungry. You feel scales rip through the skin on your calves, and lift your leaden legs, take-

Seven steps forward.
(No more.)

Reviews

[Chadvonswan]

This was such a surreal piece, I feel covered in the lining of ocean salt from reading this.
This was great. The beginning was great, and the ending had me laughing ;
Throwing anything that floats.
A husband, children.
Children. (They don't float.)

[Calliope]

"Thanks, I'm glad you feel salty." I've backspaced that so many times now, just giving up now. Thanks for reading and reviewing (and I genuinely am glad you enjoyed this weird piece/thing I scratched out in French class). B)

[mappingthenight]

One of my favorite things about reading is being able to be transported into the world in which the author creates. I loved feeling as if I was right there in the kitchen, the beach - your use of 2nd person narrating was spot on. Thanks for sharing!

[Calliope]

Thank you for your lovely comment, you're certainly welcome. I'm glad you enjoyed reading this!