The riptide curls against my legs, foam crawling up, akin to frothy caterpillars. The liquescent lips of Poseidon and his kingdom, indigo like the sky on a winter night, press against golden sand. The dock’s coarse word is hard and uncomfortable to sit on; I manage nonetheless. I swing my legs back and forth, and the moonlight grabs me and twirls me around. We share a dance.
I am Cinderella and I twirl around in a blue dress, soot clinging onto the frills at the bottom. I laugh and I hoot; this is perfect. The spotlight is on me, and I’m a star, glimmering for all eternity.
My eyes flutter open. The man I dance with doesn’t appear before my eyes, and the last wisps of my reverie fade away like midnight clouds. But his eyes stare into mine, and the love fills up my belly like a Thanksgiving meal.
Perfection is shattered, starlight broken, and I let out a gasp.
Hands of ivory flutter over my shoulders, clutching tightly. I jerk upright, eyes bulging; I look almost like a frog.
And then pain hits.
I am kicked in my mid-back, and my hair, tresses woven out of chestnut shells, flies over my face. I fall forward, surprised, my heart racing. An ear-piercing scream is allowed out of my cherry-tinted lips. I am blinded, with a raccoon-like mask being tied around my eyes, blocking my sight, and the wretched foot strikes me in the back again. And I ineptly topple into the water.
The ocean reaches up my spine, tickling it with icy bolts of liquid lightning. I see oblivion, and oblivion sees me; I cannot see anything else. I shudder, and it is cold; icy frost from the time before time seeps into my veins. My arm brushes oleaginous seaweed, and I jerk my hand back, but it only sweeps against more seaweed. I suppress another scream, and flap my arms; I am a bird and I can fly up to the surface, but I fall and I fall; I am sinking.
I fall.
I’m not a bird. I can’t fly.
I. Can’t. Fly.
I’m a human Titanic, and I’m sinking.
I fight against the water, but my lungs are collapsing, and I cannot breathe. A tight feeling squeezes itself in my chest. A racking cough escapes my throat, and the whites of my eyes burn in the salt water. A cough is caught in my lungs. I scream. I screech. I shriek.
I holler and I cry, and I am not heard.
I am not heard.
My irises, dilated and huge with fear, trail down to the ocean floor, or, at least, where it’s supposed to me, and a rock lodges itself in my bubbling throat.
Where is the bottom of this vast ocean?
I struggle and I struggle, but it does me no good.
What happened to the world of perfection?
I suddenly relax, realizing something:
The first three letters in riptide is r-i-p.
Rest in peace.
I am Cinderella and I twirl around in a blue dress, soot clinging onto the frills at the bottom. I laugh and I hoot; this is perfect. The spotlight is on me, and I’m a star, glimmering for all eternity.
My eyes flutter open. The man I dance with doesn’t appear before my eyes, and the last wisps of my reverie fade away like midnight clouds. But his eyes stare into mine, and the love fills up my belly like a Thanksgiving meal.
Perfection is shattered, starlight broken, and I let out a gasp.
Hands of ivory flutter over my shoulders, clutching tightly. I jerk upright, eyes bulging; I look almost like a frog.
And then pain hits.
I am kicked in my mid-back, and my hair, tresses woven out of chestnut shells, flies over my face. I fall forward, surprised, my heart racing. An ear-piercing scream is allowed out of my cherry-tinted lips. I am blinded, with a raccoon-like mask being tied around my eyes, blocking my sight, and the wretched foot strikes me in the back again. And I ineptly topple into the water.
The ocean reaches up my spine, tickling it with icy bolts of liquid lightning. I see oblivion, and oblivion sees me; I cannot see anything else. I shudder, and it is cold; icy frost from the time before time seeps into my veins. My arm brushes oleaginous seaweed, and I jerk my hand back, but it only sweeps against more seaweed. I suppress another scream, and flap my arms; I am a bird and I can fly up to the surface, but I fall and I fall; I am sinking.
I fall.
I’m not a bird. I can’t fly.
I. Can’t. Fly.
I’m a human Titanic, and I’m sinking.
I fight against the water, but my lungs are collapsing, and I cannot breathe. A tight feeling squeezes itself in my chest. A racking cough escapes my throat, and the whites of my eyes burn in the salt water. A cough is caught in my lungs. I scream. I screech. I shriek.
I holler and I cry, and I am not heard.
I am not heard.
My irises, dilated and huge with fear, trail down to the ocean floor, or, at least, where it’s supposed to me, and a rock lodges itself in my bubbling throat.
Where is the bottom of this vast ocean?
I struggle and I struggle, but it does me no good.
What happened to the world of perfection?
I suddenly relax, realizing something:
The first three letters in riptide is r-i-p.
Rest in peace.
