Sea Creature
by
Autumn Bettinger
She watches the water. The waves compress and stretch, inhale and exhale, pushing against the uneven coast. Perched on a rock still wet with receding tide, Beth inches her way toward a large tide pool. She unfolds her long legs, popping her toes through the pool’s surface tension. They wriggle down to mingle with the ragged chunks of kelp and trailing algae. Small creatures scuttle away as she upends the temporary ecosystem. A few minnows, slick as grease paint, darting away.
“Beth!” He barks from the shore. She shrinks against the rock, trying to hide inside the periwinkles and anemones, trying to glue herself to the uneven surface like a starfish. She slides a further into the pool, folding her legs beneath her so she can sink. Her waist drops beneath the water and sediment billows upwards to cover her bruised skin like a bandage. Her breath quickens as the wet chill travels up her thighs. Her dress floats awkwardly, tiny yellow air pockets bobbing at the surface like sea slugs, like little dead suns.
“Beth!” He shouts again. “If you don’t get back here now, it’ll be twice as worse. You hear me?”
Beth drops deeper, curling into the water like a pill bug. Her dark hair creeps around her as she sinks under the surface, holding her breath. The sound of boots crunching against crustaceans grows louder. If all the little animals nestled against rocks could scream when they died under careless feet, it would be deafening. How many crabs has he crushed?
She is not going to scream. She will be as silent as the limpets pulverized under his heels. The tide will keep sliding in, silent and hungry. If she’s patient enough, if she’s quiet enough, the weight of the ocean will pull her free of slippery rocks and shattered ribs. It will tumble her body clean, breaking the tendons apart until she darts like minnows or floats like suns.
“Beth!” He barks from the shore. She shrinks against the rock, trying to hide inside the periwinkles and anemones, trying to glue herself to the uneven surface like a starfish. She slides a further into the pool, folding her legs beneath her so she can sink. Her waist drops beneath the water and sediment billows upwards to cover her bruised skin like a bandage. Her breath quickens as the wet chill travels up her thighs. Her dress floats awkwardly, tiny yellow air pockets bobbing at the surface like sea slugs, like little dead suns.
“Beth!” He shouts again. “If you don’t get back here now, it’ll be twice as worse. You hear me?”
Beth drops deeper, curling into the water like a pill bug. Her dark hair creeps around her as she sinks under the surface, holding her breath. The sound of boots crunching against crustaceans grows louder. If all the little animals nestled against rocks could scream when they died under careless feet, it would be deafening. How many crabs has he crushed?
She is not going to scream. She will be as silent as the limpets pulverized under his heels. The tide will keep sliding in, silent and hungry. If she’s patient enough, if she’s quiet enough, the weight of the ocean will pull her free of slippery rocks and shattered ribs. It will tumble her body clean, breaking the tendons apart until she darts like minnows or floats like suns.
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