The callous curves of chipped stone carve into her fingers. With every step they push and pull, a tide against the rocky shore, surely shredding what was left of her soft skin. The salt that lingered on the walls sinks deep into the layers that remained, its pungent purity burning her down to her very soul.
And yet, when she was swimming in the dark - when nothing but the raging corrosion of her flesh was all she could think about - the reassurance that something was there with her was enough to bring her a sickening bliss.
Even if it caused her such agony.
Even if she wished it all to stop.
Even when she couldn't tell the difference between her own tears and the one the sea showered upon her.
Her lungs stung. All her acrid tongue could taste was the briny air she drowned in. All her desperate eyes could see was the inky fog that promised her a slow end at the hands of Davy Jones. All her burning ears could hear was the crashing of her own blood, louder than the maddening percussion of the echoing waves.
Louder than her screams.
Her mother told her to wear rubber boots when she heard where she was going. She had said for her to wear thermal socks because it could get cold at the cape by the cove. Erica didn't listen.
Erica never listened.
She couldn't feel her toes. Not when they were drowning in the grasp of the cold sea. Not when she desperately wished she could go back and strangle her past self for trusting the people who brought her here. Not when she wished they hadn't fought -
Not when she wished she hadn't reached out in anger and-
The salty spray of water crashed into her already heaving chest, choking what little air she had out of her excoriated throat.
Erica used to wish for a lot of things.
She used to wish that she could fit in.
She used to wish that she could fly.
She used to wish she was the princess and the prince; enchanting enough to bathe in love, but strong enough to fight against what stood in her way.
all erica could do now was wish.
Wish, as the water wrapped its icy grips around her throat.
Erica wished her fingers would go numb so she couldn't feel the salt eating her alive.
Wish as she tried to kick her legs to stay above that which wished to drag her down.
Erica wished she hadn't pushed the other girl.
Wish, as the scraping stone scratched away at her scalp when she reached what must have been the top of the cave.
She wished her friends didn't push her down the tunnel.
Wish, as her lashes grew heavy and her eyes burned.
The cold current cradled her close. It swaddled her fast; swayed her slow; sunk her deep as it pulled her farther and farther away from what must have been the exit.
Erica wished it wasn't so cold.
And then her wish came true.
Five hours earlier…
The cape of Collens’ Curve was a sharp and jagged one.
It bled out from the towering Andrew Island with wide, solid, hips; only to shrink into a splinter that grew loftier the farther it lunged from the mainland. It was a particularly impressive feat really, since the tunneled peak was known to cave in when hit with a hard wave; but what was even more impressive, was that the tip still managed to curve and capture the waters of Killers Cove.
Contrary to first assumptions, Killers Cove was not named as such for the deaths that occurred there (though, there was no denying there had been many), but rather for the pod of whales that would coast the cove and croon at the crook of night. A haunting song, one that resonated throughout the entire ocean with melancholy and heartache.
One that promised a most wondrous experience.
One that demanded to be heard.
Nestled along the curve of the cove lay the teeny town of St. Allen’s. Chock-full of crooked houses and one main street to buy wares, St. Allen’s was a stopover town for those looking to spend holidays in the charming province of Nova Scotia. Its most important buildings were the school for fifty children across ten grades, the one wholesale for everyone to buy groceries and presents, and the one pier with two ships that docked on the shore of the cape some 30 meters below.
Even with all its small-town quirks, Erica would like to say St. Allen’s was normal. The people who would visit every summer to hike to the crux cape were normal. The croons that would compel you to climb the cape and gaze at the haze formed by the spray of the sea were normal. Old man Simon sitting on the docks and spinning tales of the creature tying the oldest bloodlines to the cape was normal.
What wasn’t normal, was the new family who moved in next door.
People didn’t usually move into St. Allen’s. They stopped there for snacks; to take a break and hike Collens’ Curve; to fill up their gas tanks before going on to the bigger towns full of bigger more important lives – but only those who moved away from St. Andrews would come back again to stay.
Not those who had lived lives in other parts of the province. Certainly not those who came from huge cities with populations thousands of times more than that of their small town.
That wasn’t the weirdest thing about the Loftman’s (Erica, in her many months of watching them from her bedroom could attest to that). No, the strangest thing was their eldest daughter.
Silver Loftman (and yes, this truly was her biological first name) was a pixie-like girl with short blonde hair and bright green eyes. She had the legs of a dancer and fingers of a pianist, long and graceful with carefully considered movements. Everywhere she walked she seemed to glide, and no one seemed to be able to resist giving attention to the performance that she was.
Erica didn’t just mean performance in the sense of her being a sight to behold. No, she was referring to the act she would put on.
Everything about Silver was an act. And Erica hated her for it.
If only she knew that hatred would lead to her plummet into the Caves of Collen’s Curve. If only she knew going as a group to the cove would lead to Silver once again instigating a fight. If only she hadn’t trusted the boys to have her back, she wouldn’t have been stabbed in it.
The ones who she used to scavenge for shells with. The ones she used to bake mud pies for. The ones she had known since they had been brought home from the hospital.
Maybe then she would have ignored the warning signs that would scream every time she would see Silver relish in the arguments she caused. Maybe then she would have ignored the bait laid out by her. Maybe then, she wouldn’t have allowed herself the momentary satisfaction of seeing the dancer finally stumble and fall at her hands
Maybe then she wouldn’t be just another one lost to the cape.