Status: Should be three chapters long, will be finished soon!
The Sea's Grasp
1.
She was the palest of girls, anyone could see that, and she often felt quite ordinary. Her hair was lank and limp, the colour of a stormy cloud, and fell to her waist, though it was usually yanked cruelly into a harshly neat plait. Her face looked like old but perfectly flat paper – a mixture of wise and young thrown together in a girl no more than twelve. Skeletal and sickly-looking, she wore clothes the colour of concrete and bore no unusual feature – that could be seen, anyway.
She was a silent presence in her home, as unnoticeable as seeds on the wind, ready to plant themselves in waiting soil. Her parents sometimes caught a glimpse of her as she wandered absently around their large, useless house.
As she walked through the deserted hallways, she breathed in the scent of many lives that had disappeared into the folds of time, the secrets congealing like blood in the corners. It wasn’t until her hair frizzed in wisps around her face, flying free from her plait, that she stopped her incessant wandering; it was then, with her feet bleeding in protest, that she would tread a path outside, where, not even a hundred feet from the front door, a cliff ascended to a point. And every evening, she climbed up the treacherous rocks and found herself gazing at a churning sea so far down below. Sometimes, when a storm blew through like an angry lion, she’d hold her arms out into it, as though she could calm such a tormented soul. Sometimes, when only it was listening, she told the wind stories as it whistled back coded replies.
Every time she sat or stood upon the cliff, feet inches from the crumbling edge, she felt love and longing charge a path through her veins and out through her pale lips in a scream that ripped itself to pieces in the always-present wind.
Her mother and father watched worriedly from their doorway, exchanging glances that asked what they’d done wrong, how they’d brought up a child who had a mind riddled with make-believe thoughts she should have grown out of a long time ago. Eventually, they let her go to whatever insanity hid inside her.
Time slowly ticked past until the day of her thirteenth birthday, dawning earlier than it should. The girl climbed quietly from her too-neat bed, white nightdress tangled around her knees, black spots in her eyes as she did not sleep enough for perfect vision. The wooden floor sent chills through her small feet up thin legs down to the very tops of her long fingers. Out her window, the sun crawled over the horizon, bleeding orange carelessly like paint splashes across the sky, an artist’s playground.
Without realising where she was going, she found herself stepping clumsily to the top of the cliff, jagged rocks digging into her soles. When she could see the raging ocean, she sat, toes and fingers and her top lip turning blue with a cold she couldn’t feel. All she felt was a silent peace.
That was where they found her, hours later, unconscious and soaked to the skin with the spit of rain and the spray of ocean. Her heart had spluttered its last beat just moments ago.
The hospital smelt like medicine and death, and the stench of it crept up her nostrils and huddled there. There were voices around her, some she did not know and some she was sure were familiar, and they wavered up and down and tumbled together. She didn’t understand; perhaps they were speaking a different language.
Her mind was throbbing with the memory of salt water and the sting of flying water that felt like sharpened icicles. Her stomach spasmed painfully and if she could move, she’d arch her back in an attempt to free herself of this crushing ache.
Frantically, she tried to open her eyes and she could see black lumps against a grey background but the effort was too much and she was drowning again.
The second time she woke, her eyes were already open and she didn’t have to struggle against the incredible weight of her eyelids. The hospital room was empty and the bed was cold and flat beneath her. But wait – it wasn’t empty, after all. There was a woman in a plastic chair in the corner of the room, her eyes unblinkingly staring at the girl. Her hair was the colour of seaweed and her face bore the same pale young-old feel the girl’s did.
When the woman saw the girl was conscious, she stood and walked unsteadily over on bare feet. “Nadina, they call you,” she softly sneered, face screwed up in what could be disgust. “Well, it’s time again, Nadina. Seek what you will with a sharp-bladed knife and in its blood you shall sing.” The voice was too loud, a voice of century-old secrets and confidence, ringing in the girl’s head like an echo of screams.
The woman reached the end of the bed and lowered dirty-nailed fingers to the small lumps under the thin blanket that were feet. “With a sharp-bladed knife,” she murmured before releasing the feet and revealing a dagger from beneath her cloak. With almost silent steps, she circled the bed to lean down and whisper in the girl’s ear. “And in its blood you shall sing.” A metallic blur sliced the girl’s neck but she could not manage to cry even a whimper.
Shockingly, the gaping hole in her neck did not bleed; it wept a silvery substance that sang an eerie, unearthly note. The woman scooped it up in a glass vial before sealing it with a cork and slipping it in a pocket in her own neck. “You shan’t sing,” she said cuttingly. The girl blinked in a haze of agony and the skin pocket disappeared and she wondered whether she’d seen it at all.
And then, the woman dissolved into a whispery cloud of petals that danced right out the open window, abandoning the girl to sink back into unconsciousness.
She was a silent presence in her home, as unnoticeable as seeds on the wind, ready to plant themselves in waiting soil. Her parents sometimes caught a glimpse of her as she wandered absently around their large, useless house.
As she walked through the deserted hallways, she breathed in the scent of many lives that had disappeared into the folds of time, the secrets congealing like blood in the corners. It wasn’t until her hair frizzed in wisps around her face, flying free from her plait, that she stopped her incessant wandering; it was then, with her feet bleeding in protest, that she would tread a path outside, where, not even a hundred feet from the front door, a cliff ascended to a point. And every evening, she climbed up the treacherous rocks and found herself gazing at a churning sea so far down below. Sometimes, when a storm blew through like an angry lion, she’d hold her arms out into it, as though she could calm such a tormented soul. Sometimes, when only it was listening, she told the wind stories as it whistled back coded replies.
Every time she sat or stood upon the cliff, feet inches from the crumbling edge, she felt love and longing charge a path through her veins and out through her pale lips in a scream that ripped itself to pieces in the always-present wind.
Her mother and father watched worriedly from their doorway, exchanging glances that asked what they’d done wrong, how they’d brought up a child who had a mind riddled with make-believe thoughts she should have grown out of a long time ago. Eventually, they let her go to whatever insanity hid inside her.
Time slowly ticked past until the day of her thirteenth birthday, dawning earlier than it should. The girl climbed quietly from her too-neat bed, white nightdress tangled around her knees, black spots in her eyes as she did not sleep enough for perfect vision. The wooden floor sent chills through her small feet up thin legs down to the very tops of her long fingers. Out her window, the sun crawled over the horizon, bleeding orange carelessly like paint splashes across the sky, an artist’s playground.
Without realising where she was going, she found herself stepping clumsily to the top of the cliff, jagged rocks digging into her soles. When she could see the raging ocean, she sat, toes and fingers and her top lip turning blue with a cold she couldn’t feel. All she felt was a silent peace.
That was where they found her, hours later, unconscious and soaked to the skin with the spit of rain and the spray of ocean. Her heart had spluttered its last beat just moments ago.
The hospital smelt like medicine and death, and the stench of it crept up her nostrils and huddled there. There were voices around her, some she did not know and some she was sure were familiar, and they wavered up and down and tumbled together. She didn’t understand; perhaps they were speaking a different language.
Her mind was throbbing with the memory of salt water and the sting of flying water that felt like sharpened icicles. Her stomach spasmed painfully and if she could move, she’d arch her back in an attempt to free herself of this crushing ache.
Frantically, she tried to open her eyes and she could see black lumps against a grey background but the effort was too much and she was drowning again.
The second time she woke, her eyes were already open and she didn’t have to struggle against the incredible weight of her eyelids. The hospital room was empty and the bed was cold and flat beneath her. But wait – it wasn’t empty, after all. There was a woman in a plastic chair in the corner of the room, her eyes unblinkingly staring at the girl. Her hair was the colour of seaweed and her face bore the same pale young-old feel the girl’s did.
When the woman saw the girl was conscious, she stood and walked unsteadily over on bare feet. “Nadina, they call you,” she softly sneered, face screwed up in what could be disgust. “Well, it’s time again, Nadina. Seek what you will with a sharp-bladed knife and in its blood you shall sing.” The voice was too loud, a voice of century-old secrets and confidence, ringing in the girl’s head like an echo of screams.
The woman reached the end of the bed and lowered dirty-nailed fingers to the small lumps under the thin blanket that were feet. “With a sharp-bladed knife,” she murmured before releasing the feet and revealing a dagger from beneath her cloak. With almost silent steps, she circled the bed to lean down and whisper in the girl’s ear. “And in its blood you shall sing.” A metallic blur sliced the girl’s neck but she could not manage to cry even a whimper.
Shockingly, the gaping hole in her neck did not bleed; it wept a silvery substance that sang an eerie, unearthly note. The woman scooped it up in a glass vial before sealing it with a cork and slipping it in a pocket in her own neck. “You shan’t sing,” she said cuttingly. The girl blinked in a haze of agony and the skin pocket disappeared and she wondered whether she’d seen it at all.
And then, the woman dissolved into a whispery cloud of petals that danced right out the open window, abandoning the girl to sink back into unconsciousness.