*Okay. So. I wrote this story as well for my Creative Writing class, and I'm debating which one I should submit. Let me know what you think and which you like better (Only part of the other story is up, but I don't feel like putting the rest of it up, so sorry, lol :P) Enjoy!!!*
Frothy waves lapped gently at my feet as I walked the length of the beach. Miniscule rocks and shells cut into my feet, but they were so calloused and accustomed to it from the years I had spent here, I hardly even noticed. I paused and turned to face the rolling swells of the Sound, the damp sand squelching between my toes. I was looking for the solace and healing that I knew this beach would always provide. Evaporated salt sat in the air and on my tongue along with the other flavors of the sea. White foam appeared, disappeared, and reappeared, capping the deep blue-green of the water. The billowing wind blew strands of my hair into my face, plastering it to my neck, my eyelashes, my mouth. Nostalgia settled over me as I gazed at Connecticut in the distance, remembering the countless times I had peered through the fog to see it when I was younger.
With a sigh, I turned my back on the water and gazed at the massive cliffs that had previously been behind me. Sand and vegetation cascaded down its side. I smiled sadly as I looked at the deep rifts that looked like fingers, partially hidden by overhanging branches and the stairs. I remembered playing Nancy Drew with Emily and Beth on those slopes, entirely convinced that a giant had made an imprint of his hand where the rifts were. It was the only reasonable explanation to the mind of an over imaginative twelve-year-old. I could still feel that rush of excitement and anxiety flooding through me as I told the others that we were being watched and were in grave danger. But we didn’t have to worry, because the giant’s handprint was a sign that he would protect us. I laughed in the silence, shaking my head at the foolishness I used to create and made others believe. My laughter abruptly stopped as I remembered that Emily and Beth were gone now. They had moved away long, long ago, and although we had kept in touch at first, our connection had been lost. The girls who had once been two of my dearest friends were no more than memories now.
My gaze now turned to the assortment of large rocks at the bottom of the stairs. I could practically feel my hands pushed against their gravelly surfaces as I climbed all over them. It felt like hundreds of little pebbles pressing into my skin, then being rubbed back and forth. Yet it wasn’t painful. When I grew too old to enjoy climbing over them, I would sit on my favorite rock, the one that reminded me of “The Little Mermaid,” and just think. It was elevated above the rest, and shaped like an oval, its tip jutting out above the sand, surrounded by reeds. If I wasn’t alone, on those rocks was where my friends and I would sit and talk. Sometimes our conversations were deep and meaningful, and sometimes they were silly and pointless.
A gust of wind swept across the beach, carrying sand and the remains of whatever litter people had thrown down from the cliffs with it, shaking all 174 rickety stairs to their very foundations. Midway up the wooden steps, on one of the landings, I could see the bench where I had sat that day with Kimmy. I had been so angry with Haley for tagging along with us and forced her to climb farther ahead, making Kimmy wait with me on the bench until she was out of hearing range. As I ranted and complained about how annoying little sisters were, I remember breaking off a hollow branch that was growing amongst the bramble along the cliff. Taking my pocket knife that I enjoyed carrying around with me everywhere I went, I began to try and stab little holes in it, determined to make a flute as Kimmy gave me words of sympathy and advice.
I saw the blood dripping onto my worn jeans before I felt the pain. I moved the piece of wood away from my hand to see that I had stabbed right through into my pinky finger. I remembered staring at my hand in surprise, not making a sound, more intrigued by the wound than pained. Kimmy began to panic and scream when she saw my finger, which by that time was bleeding profusely. I had quickly wrapped it in my sweater, told Kimmy to shut up, then ran the rest of the way up the stairs. The remainder of that day was a little unclear to me, but I remembered Haley keeping a cool head, despite being eight years old, fetching me a ridiculous amount of band-aids, and ensuring that our mom wouldn’t find out. My parents never did know what happened, although a stitch or two would probably have been useful. I recalled being afraid that they would never let me or my siblings use a pocketknife again because of what happened, and I couldn’t bear being the one responsible for that. Pocketknives were the coolest accessories any one of us could possess, and I knew how terribly my brothers would hate me if my stupidity lost them their most prized possessions.
I peered down at my left pinky in the fading light, and smiled softly as I saw that the scar shaped like a sliver of the moon was still there. I could barely remember the last time Kimmy and I had spoken, but that scar on my finger was like having a piece of her with me at all times. It always made me laugh to think that I had been the one with the injury, but Kimmy had been the one who cried and needed to be comforted.
Squinting at the setting sun, I pressed my pinky close to my chest, feeling as if somehow it connected Kimmy and me. I didn’t know where she was or what she was doing. We used to spend hours upon hours together, not just at this beach, but all over Long Island. At her house or at mine, our families had been close and our friendship even closer. Kimmy was an ardent Yankee fan, and although I generally could care less for sports, I claimed to be a Mets fan just because my dad was. Among any of my other friends, this would have caused derision and arguing. But for Kimmy and me, it only seemed to draw us closer, making us proud that we had different interests, but could still be the best of friends. Anger festered within me as I thought of how simply it all ended. My mom never answered or returned their calls, and soon enough the phone stopped ringing. Without getting any say in the matter, I had woken up one morning without a best friend.
A few years after the friendship disintegrated, I had been in my room typing up a paper on my computer when I heard my mom talking on the phone. “You saw her? That must have been awkward! Her daughter, Kimmy, was sweet enough, but the shit that went on in that house…Oh, God …What’d you say? Yeah, she’s still drinking, hasn’t been sober in years. I felt bad, I really did, but there was no way in hell I would have let my daughter be exposed to that crap.” Hearing that conversation made me sick and I remembered feeling so bad for Kimmy and hating my mom for taking me away when my best friend probably needed me.
With a bitter sigh, I sat down near the water’s edge, not caring that I would get my shorts wet and covered in sand. I dug through the sand around me with one hand, looking for some rocks to throw to help me release some pent up feelings.
Eventually, I came across a dark red, almost brown stone and a thousand memories flashed through my mind as I saw it. Instead of tossing it away, I dunked it into the water, wetting it, and then began to drag it across my bare legs. Red streaks were left where the rock had touched, looking like blood. It had been just the rock I thought it was: the Indian rock. I didn’t even know if that’s what its real name was, but throughout my childhood, I always referred to it as that. My siblings and I would use these rocks a countless number of times to pretend that we had terrible wounds or bloody noses or we would attempt to dye our hair red. Usually, it was blatantly obvious that our injuries were fake, but every once and a while, our artistic attempts would succeed and we would convince our mom that our noses really were bleeding. Of course, when Mom realized the blood wasn’t blood but dye, we’d get in a tremendous amount of trouble, but we considered the punishment worth the fun of playing a trick.
As I looked around and gazed at the landscape, each feature bringing another memory to mind, I thought of the many different parts this little, private beach had played in my life. This had been the site of many an adventure and exploration. It was here that my friends or siblings and I would talk about what we knew of sex and life and our troubles, however insignificant they might have been, and tried to make sense of it all. Here, we attempted to prove to each other who knew the most curse words and said them with a guilty sense of pride. This beach had witnessed our multiple arguments; it had been privy to our deepest secrets; it had laughed along with us and contributed to the fun that was always to be had when we walked down those stairs. It was here that so much life had been lived. It was also here that Kimmy and I had last seen each other.
We had been sitting on a massive rock, a few yards into the Sound, listening to the sea gulls squawk and scream. It was the summer before we entered high school, and we were both a little nervous.
“I wish we were, like, at the same school, you know?” she had said to me with a sigh, picking at the green barnacle between the rock’s crevices.
“Yeah, it sucks that we’re gonna be by ourselves,” I had agreed, staring up at the cloudless sky.
“My mom says it’s, like, good for us to make other friends.”
“We already have other friends, though.”
“I know, it’s freaking stupid.”
“I won’t forget about you, though. No matter how many other friends I make, you’ll always be my best one.”
Kimmy smiled gratefully at me and said, “Same here.” She stuck out her pinky, and I intertwined mine with hers, and we promised to keep that vow, just like we used to do when we were little.
The tide was slowly coming in, and the waves pushed past me, completely soaking me as they swept further up the shore. I rested my head on my knees, allowing the chilly water to surround me, not minding it one bit. The Sound washed up my legs, erasing the red stains from my body, and leaving a stinging, salty sensation. I felt the way I did when I was little and would hurt myself while playing in the sand. I would wash the blood away in the salt water to clean it then jump around in agitation because of the pain. But the wound always healed nicely. As I gazed at my now clean, somewhat sensitive skin, the sun finally dropped below the horizon. I picked up my empty Patron bottle and dropped some jingle shells into it, then headed for the stairs.
