The Start of Something
She liked to lie on her back and look through the puzzle of mango leaves. She floated in the salt water, her ears just below the surface drowning out the surrounding sounds of crashing waves and the steady scream of cicadas in the jungle. She let her legs go limp, arched her back and breathed out. When the tide was high, she would wander down the beach, sidestep the sand crabs and chase the schools of thousands of sardines in the shallow water. Sometimes, if she was lucky, she spotted a black tipped reef shark, its fin cutting through the water as it hunted the black sardines. The two cliffs that jutted out of the island reminded her of two angry Gods in a duel; rather than the head and back of a she dragon as the legend told.
She liked these moments, away from the people, away from the dark room of dreams. She liked the way the water filled her ears, crackling as she lowered herself and tickling the inside for just a second before her ears adjusted, full of water and then silence. Crackle, crackle, silence. A full silence as if it might burst without warning, as if she might go deaf. A silence full of sounds. The waves rocked her back and forth and after the salt water stung her eyes she would force herself to keep them open, her eyes stinging and the sunlight trickling through the leaves like honey.
She looked for pythons, curled up, waiting for her to float beneath them before they dropped. She looked for pythons among the orchids and the lichen that clung to the branches that jutted out over the sea. She looked for pythons, but she never saw one. It relieved her and disappointed her at the same time. She looked anyway. She would continue to look when she returned to England, would search the English Ivy for the green curl of the snake’s body. She knew she would never see one in England, but she looked anyway.
When she was finished floating in the sea, after the sun added more freckles to her face, she would sit on the sand where the water licked at her toes. She would scrub her body with sand, rubbing the dirt and the sweat from her skin. Her thighs, that were older now, she would scrub until they were read and raw hoping what she had read in fashion magazines about scrubbing cellulite would be true. Scrubbing cellulite until it was read and raw.
She had always been like that, scrubbing her skin, hoping to make it younger or healthier or clearer. Her skin was a jackfruit. She hated bumps, rough surfaces, drove her to pick, to scratch until the bumps fell off. Rough surfaces meant imperfection. She was far from perfect.
She let her mind wander underneath the mango leaves. She let it slip and creep down forgotten streets, past old lover’s doorways and alleyways full of ghosts hiding in the shadows. It wandered, sometimes lost through spider webs of a life she left behind. Sometimes she would lurch and splash through the water, certain of her falling, desperate for something to grasp. Then suddenly, her feet would hit sand and corral, tiny cuts spreading like broken glass across her toes. She would hear the crash of the waves, see the stillness of the jungle, and realize she had not fallen, had never fallen. Simply walked away. Simply, as if it had been simple, as if it had been like skinning an eel; one cut and then pull. As if. As if it hadn’t changed everything.
She liked these moments, away from the people, away from the dark room of dreams. She liked the way the water filled her ears, crackling as she lowered herself and tickling the inside for just a second before her ears adjusted, full of water and then silence. Crackle, crackle, silence. A full silence as if it might burst without warning, as if she might go deaf. A silence full of sounds. The waves rocked her back and forth and after the salt water stung her eyes she would force herself to keep them open, her eyes stinging and the sunlight trickling through the leaves like honey.
She looked for pythons, curled up, waiting for her to float beneath them before they dropped. She looked for pythons among the orchids and the lichen that clung to the branches that jutted out over the sea. She looked for pythons, but she never saw one. It relieved her and disappointed her at the same time. She looked anyway. She would continue to look when she returned to England, would search the English Ivy for the green curl of the snake’s body. She knew she would never see one in England, but she looked anyway.
When she was finished floating in the sea, after the sun added more freckles to her face, she would sit on the sand where the water licked at her toes. She would scrub her body with sand, rubbing the dirt and the sweat from her skin. Her thighs, that were older now, she would scrub until they were read and raw hoping what she had read in fashion magazines about scrubbing cellulite would be true. Scrubbing cellulite until it was read and raw.
She had always been like that, scrubbing her skin, hoping to make it younger or healthier or clearer. Her skin was a jackfruit. She hated bumps, rough surfaces, drove her to pick, to scratch until the bumps fell off. Rough surfaces meant imperfection. She was far from perfect.
She let her mind wander underneath the mango leaves. She let it slip and creep down forgotten streets, past old lover’s doorways and alleyways full of ghosts hiding in the shadows. It wandered, sometimes lost through spider webs of a life she left behind. Sometimes she would lurch and splash through the water, certain of her falling, desperate for something to grasp. Then suddenly, her feet would hit sand and corral, tiny cuts spreading like broken glass across her toes. She would hear the crash of the waves, see the stillness of the jungle, and realize she had not fallen, had never fallen. Simply walked away. Simply, as if it had been simple, as if it had been like skinning an eel; one cut and then pull. As if. As if it hadn’t changed everything.
Is this she person you, Danielle? Such beautiful writing. Reminds me of kingsoliver. Thanks for entertaining me while I wait for a trial at jury duty.
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