#198 Anchored

by Karen Renzi

Was it the glare of the sun or squawking of the gulls that forced her eyes open? She struggled to focus on the worn red velour under her cheek.

She regretted turning slightly to her side. Her engorged breasts ached. Deep. She wanted to wish it away, but before that desperate prayer had a chance of answer, she’d inhaled the sweet sour smell of her own damp t-shirt.

Who was she kidding? She was done praying. Not worth the effort.

Willing each muscle to move took just about all she had, but she sat up. Her face now smack in the middle of that unforgiving sunbeam. She squinted out over the waves, still dark in their depths despite the morning sun. Surely that glimmer was only superficial.

The waves were still just steps from the pavement. Why was she so anchored to the damn car? She could be free, float away. Not have to move, think, feel, anything.

She was done. Undone. Numb.

She had driven all night, until the needle hit the E. The only thing her mind could bear was the vastness of the sea.

It needed nothing.

Was that a cry? Her own breath suffocated her again, but no, just a gull. Another whiff of sour milk hit her. Her stomach turned and memories flooded in.

She couldn’t take another needy, hungry cry. She reached out her arms and dropped it on the bed. She turned, walked out. She did not turn back.

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