Mira took a deep breath. Today was that day. Now was that time.
The girl took a step further, letting the water rise past her ankles. Overhead the wind blew through her hair, calling her further in. She could almost hear their silent verses pouring down from the sky.
Nous écoutons. Nous écoutons. We are listening. We are listening.
A larger wave splashed right up to Mira’s thighs. The young girl shivered from the icy waters. More waves followed, these ones only directing a spray to the bottom of her white shirt. She waded deeper in.
The wind suddenly intensified, blowing the back of Mira’s shirt up, exposing tender skin, pink like the inside of a conch shell. Ice-cold droplets brushed the newest red blossoms, fresh and tender from last midnight. She winced. The flowers weren’t purple yet. Now they would never turn purple. Hurriedly, she pulled her shirt down to cover her back. She felt like a coward for fearing a pain that would now never come.
Dropping her gaze to her feet, the girl pushed those thoughts from her mind. She didn’t want to think of those horrid things, and she certainly didn’t want to remember last night. And all those nights since she could remember. She didn’t need to be reminded of how she’d gotten those flowers, how she had never not known pain and fear.
Instead, she focused on what lay underwater. Small silver fish swam around her feet, gathering together around her in pity as their slimy scales brushed against her skin. It was so much different than the people on land. They didn’t welcome you wherever you went.
Mira let herself sink down to her knees, letting the waves splash over her face. Mira tasted the salt water, welcomed the cold and numbness. The ocean shocked her at first, but slowly it began numbing the pain, taking it far away.
Tears rolled down from her cheeks, mingling with the sea. She hated it. She hated that she couldn’t control her fear. Her sorrows were many. She didn’t want to leave the ocean. It was her haven.
Today had to be the day. There was no way she could go back up that hill again. There was no one to protect her there. She wept at the loneliness, at the pain.
Pleurer n'est pas une lâcheté. Pleurer est la sortie. Crying is not cowardice. Crying is release.
The sea welcomed Mira’s tears, its cold embrace becoming warm against her skin.
The sea had heard her story, and now it could finally help her. Mira was in deep enough that the water was up to her waist. A massive wave rose three times the girl’s height. It’s ethereal beauty reminded Mira of another who had disappeared as quickly as the tide returning to the sea. That someone had been a comfort to her, and she had been driven into the sea.
The sea had welcomed that person, and now it would welcome Mira. It had taken away her pain. Now it would take away her sorrow.
With a liberating sigh Mira wholly released her sorrows. She let herself forget what had happened, what would happen. She felt her fear of the night slip away, along with her cowardice and loneliness.
The pain was gone now. As was her fear.
Mira felt free. She was never going to lose this feeling again.
Now she could be part of the sea.
From a forest covered hill some distance away a voice cried out harshly in search of the young girl, cursing when there was no response. A lone figure trampled onto the beach, eyes desperately scanning the beach for the girl. Memories of the night before were still fresh, and if that girl got out their stories would no longer be their own.
Thinking she couldn’t have gone far, the figure stopped upon reaching the end of the pine-sheltered pathway. They watched in horror as a massive wave rose up not far from the shore. The wave crashed down upon chestnut hair, water spraying into the air.
For a moment there was silence.
Then the sea returned to its harmonic symphonies.
To some the sea is a void, something that swallows everything up.
But to others it is a haven, something that grants peaceful refuge.
If you listen hard enough, you can hear stories of both.
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