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suicidal thoughts

a short story by Annika Dreffein

Content warnings may apply. Please check page 123 for more information.

The waves are lapping over her feet, covering more skin as the water ebbs and flows, the tide rolling in quickly. She curls her toes slightly, feeling the sand move out underneath them as the water takes, takes, takes, as is its nature.

Her loose hair is tugged back by the breeze, and in her ears, a low and eerie sound that drowns out every noise originating from further inland.

With how grey the sky is today, the beach is completely empty, the weather not lending itself to a swim or even a nice walk along the coast – no, it’s just her today, the overwhelming lack of company something she’s grown accustomed to.

As the water sinks into the bottom of her jeans, cold and clammy against her skin, she hears the single, shrill cry of a seagull. Through the wind, it almost sounds like the distant sound of a child calling for help.

She shivers. The combination of wind and cold saltwater lets the chill seep right into her bones. She should go back now, to her empty house right behind the dike. If she takes a warm bath, maybe drinks one of her herbal teas, she can avoid catching a cold.

The tide is moving in quickly, proving the sea’s reputation as a force of nature with every pull on her legs. Idly, she watches as seashells tumble past her, spinning wildly, sinking beneath the foam. She wonders if in a few hours, they will wash back up on the shore, unharmed by the then ebbing water, or if they’ll be dragged off the coast, lost to unknown depths of blues and greys.

A glimpse of orange catches her attention and, on instinct, she bends down to retrieve a small pebble, brightly coloured and slightly see-through, weighing next to nothing.

She thinks of small hands held out to her in excitement, an array of sunset-coloured treasures, resting on soft skin. At home, they’d throw them into a bowl of saltwater, but none ever rose to the top, resting heavily below the mass of the water instead. Still, she keeps a bright palette of orange hues on her kitchen windowsill. This one she lets go, watches it disappear.

A wave crashes against her knee and when it draws back, she feels how it wants to take her with it. Has she been here for minutes or hours? She’s been struggling to keep a grip on time. Her mailbox is overflowing with electricity bills unpaid, angry red letters printed on their envelopes. Dust rests on every surface of her home, spreading out from a room left untouched. When her life halted all those months ago, the world moved on without her. Catching up seems impossible.

Her jacket is still lying on the washed-up piece of driftwood where she left it, connected to her now only through fading footprints. The contrast between the bright red of her jacket against the soft, dull shades of beige and grey, is harsh. A strong gust lifts it up slightly as though it were a kite, dancing in the wind with a life of its own until threatening to pull out of your tight and desperate grip.

As the water rises up to her thighs, she becomes distantly aware that she needs to leave now, needs to walk out of the water before it swallows her whole. For a moment, she imagines what it would be like to stay.

It could be so easy, standing still as she has been for so long, the water moving around her, in her stead and embracing her. She’s been here for so long, too long perhaps. Her bones feel so heavy and cold. Maybe she shouldn’t have ever come here in the first place.

Her house is already so devoid of life these days, what difference would one fewer jacket on the coat rack really make? She pictures a forgotten tea kettle on the stove, a wooden door left open, swinging in the wind, and a set of footprints moving towards the sea, joining an old set long since washed out. Here at its edge, the ocean is tumultuous and wild, but further out, just beneath the surface, all noise could be washed away, movement lost in the endlessly stretching expanse of water, freezing everything caught within it in time.

She hesitates, waits a little longer, entertains the thought. Then, eventually, she turns, wades out of the waist-deep water. The algae clings to her ankles as if calling her back, tugging at her with slimy cold fingers and begging her not to leave, tendrils of dread twisting around her heart. Returning to the shore that has since moved further inland is difficult, her legs burning with effort just to keep her upright, every step a struggle against the waves crashing against her back and pulling the coarse sand out from underneath her, shoving her to the right with the current. When she has made it onto the dry land, she turns around, takes in the rough sea, the grey, cloudy sky and the foam being blown across the beach and thinks that she might come back tomorrow.