Words by Emily Wilson She always had to peel herself off of the floor after dreams like this one, soggy and limp. Like a bruised summer plum. She knew she had to treat herself tenderly, as she would treat any other friend. Use the softest of words. Taste raspberries fresh from the market. Light candles that smelled of sun-filled orange groves. Soak in hot water no matter the cost. Though she normally drank it black and unsweetened, she would need sugar in her tea that morning. Because even in sleep, there was never any respite. The beach was feral, bleached of any colour - a rocky, windswept setting that echoed German Romanticism. She walked along it barefoot, her toes probing the sand. A lonely figure. The shapeless floral dress she wore that carefully concealed her curves was the only splash of colour in the scene - even her skin was grey. Even her loose curls, normally a soft, sunny brown, were colourless. There were no rings on her fingers. No gold, no silver encircled her wrists or neck. No stones dangled from her ears, precious or otherwise. She was without armour. She glanced to her side. Walls of rock lined her path, forming loose, makeshift cliffs. They towered over her, blocking off anything that wasn’t sea, sand, or sky. When she gazed ahead again, there was a man watching her. He had skin like old leather. He was dressed in a hat and raincoat, and looked to be damp around the edges, bleeding into his surroundings like slashes of watercolour paint blending together. Though he didn’t say anything, his intent was clear. Her insides turned cold. ‘Please don’t,’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve already had my turn.’ His toothless smile was almost kind. ‘But pussy tastes better when it’s been chased.’ He shrugged, his hands hidden in his coat pockets. He didn’t make the rules. He didn’t advance on her, but he didn’t have to - she knew what would become of her if she just stayed still. So she did her best to scramble up the rocks, though she didn’t know what lay beyond them. But with every step the rocks slipped out from under her, sharp and unforgiving. The skin of her bare feet wept red. His laugh as she stumbled was like gravel, and with every misstep he laughed louder. When he removed his hands from his pockets, she saw that his fingers were taloned. He was even closer now, though she hadn’t seen him move. She took a final breath. Rather than be taken again, she hurled herself into the sea. Foam fizzed through her veins. The waves welcomed her, and her limbs became water. When she awoke, the salt of the sea was still woven through her hair. Time was patient with her as she stood beneath needles of hot water, washing it all out.
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sea, sea, s
allo w s w . a l l me o w s w . a l l me o w s w
