Waves

• Courtney Hill, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2014

The waves lap slowly, bringing the scorching summers’ air thoroughly throughout my very soul.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
That’s what Papa said. He said to breathe in the salt-tinged air, and breathe out the sulphur.
And yet, all I could do to stay afloat in a world drowning was to breathe.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
My feet drag harshly against the many grains of sand as I walk forward. The beach used to be a lover of mine, we use to share a common factor in which we both waved in and out of the many expectations of the world. We used to share our victory in dodging a world not yet known, and we used to pull our demons under and stamp over them until we were both safe.
And then we would continue on with our days: Demon free.
But the world has changed, and the waves seem to have left me behind.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
My eyes sparkle as the sun hits them. They glance about, wary of what they are to encounter.
A glass bottle, only a short mile away twinkles in the one brief, bright light.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I do not step forward. I do not turn my bodice towards the bottle, nor do I swipe it up in tingling fingers. Whatever is concealed in those murky depths is not of my business, nor would it ever be addressed to me.
As I watch on through chocolate orbs, a small boy: Not much younger than I was when Papa passed on, skips alongside the current. And, as I watch on, he swipes up the bottle with jittery fingers and yanks off the cork.
A pile of murky papers sway in the wind as they fall to the young boys feet.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He glances around, confused at first, before he bent down to pick up the frayed-papers in two hands not much larger than the mittens I kept in my bottom draw to remind me of my sister.
Not much larger than innocence in itself.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
His fingers seem to twitch as he brings the papers up to eye-level, and he reads. The young boy reads, and as he does: I glance down at my pale-for-wears skin. I glance down to the cuts digging vein-trails through my skin like watery-depths of red, and I smile.
Because Papa said to breathe. Papa told me to breathe, and so that is what I must do.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
‘Miss?’ He’s upon me.
The boy, with his curly mop and curious smile, is standing before me on bare feet.
‘Are you an Angel?’
‘No, child.’ I whisper, ‘I am nothing but the waves.’
‘I think you’re an Angel.’
‘And why is that?’
His eyes graze my scarred skin, ‘Because only Angel’s wear red veins, only Angel’s wear white gowns and pale skin.’
I close my eyes, and smile.
Breathe in. Breathe out.