Torn

The wind whistles harshly through the top of the pines, a strange and eerie sound from down here, close to the sand, where only the slightest of breezes ruffles my hair. I'm not wearing any footwear. My jandals lie discarded outside the back door of the bach. My only focus had been on getting away from the claustrophobic confines of the cabin, where the children screamed and fought with one another, and the mosquitoes swooped and whined, and my partner sat silent and glowering. This holiday was nothing close to what I had expected, but I should have known better than to build expectations. I had set myself up for failure from the outset.

The cool silkiness of the sand is a surprise. My feet harbor a memory of sand the temperature of an oven, burning and gritty and painful. I'm not sure what to do with this alternative sensation. I dig my toes in, seeking the heat of the day, but I find nothing but more coolness and an almost damp earthiness. I can hear Jase, my son, screaming in rage from the bach on the dunes. I move further away. Mike can deal with him. I'm on holiday too. I deserve a break.

I can see the ocean now. I've been able to hear the sound of the tides since I left the bach. The waves roll in relentlessly with a hiss and a whoosh. The sea looks pretty by the light of the moon. Different. I could be in another world. My toe stubs against a piece of driftwood and I jump away, memories of the prickly and horrifying carcass of a dead hedgehog still too close to my thoughts.

I sit down on the white expanse of the sea-washed log at the top of the high-tide line. I dig my toes again into the cool sand, spreading then out before scrunching them in again. The wind in the pines howls behind me. I can no longer hear the kids. The waves suck and pull at the tiny particles of sand on the shore. The moon lays its benign light across the smooth waters of the ocean, out past the waves, where the sea appears as innocuous and flat as a lily pond.

Lulled into a false state of meditation, I don't notice the splash for a minute or two. My subconsciousness finally registers the sound and relays it to my conscious. As if in a dream, I turn my head, sluggish and slow. The dead walk out of the sea, their steps laborious and stilted. Hung with seaweed and stiff arms reaching for salvation, their moans drown out the sound of the pines.

My conscious mind screams RUN! My meditative self remains still and watches with interest. With painful determination, the dead raises one decaying leg after another and slowly emerges from the waves. As one, the dead turn their heads on flimsy and tattered necks and fix dark and empty eye sockets upon me. I envy their simple dedication to their task. I had desired a break rife with explicit simplicity. Instead, I got crying children and an unresponsive partner. I watch as the dead move across the sands towards me, their souls hungry and murderously focused. In a few short steps, they will reach me.

RUN! My conscious mind is already at the top of the sand dunes, gesturing frantically for me to join her. I sit a moment longer. The dead, bringing with them no thoughts or dependents, are peaceful and free. They have what I need.

RUN! BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE! I stand up slowly, my movements leaden and heavy. The stench of the dead reaches my nostrils - rancid and stinging, tinged with sulfur.  I finally wake with a start. Without further thought, I plow through the grasping cold sands of the beach towards the calamitous and claustrophobic safety of the bach.