You need to jump. You have to. The sea looks grey and stormy, it's splashing and screaming and yelling. But you can make out a little spot of mundane yellow sand, with a small pearly cove - where you will be safe. You slide your warm hands at the base of the window and slowly pull it up, feeling the ocean winds kissing your face.
You cringe as you wipe off the green grime at the tips of your fingers.
The bedroom behind you is almost begging you not to leave. You say goodbye to the faded pinstripe couch and the dangling orange lamp. You wave to the dead marigolds that sit in their broken china pot, the cold cucumber that sits half-eaten on the wood counter. The place feels homely which is a rare feeling to you. You've lived here the longest, for months. But it's easy to part with this place. You are experienced at goodbyes.
Then, you jump.
The wind weaves around you like a cold spider's web wrapping you tighter and tighter. The waves are so deep and black, they look like heavy oil. Mist shrouds your body in humidity. The black sea is coming closer and closer until you are in it. A loud splash sounds in your ears. The waves lap around your neck, not sweet and soft, but hard like a dark black eel. You try to push yourself against the bracing current, but your strength and effort are no avail.
You pull yourself under the current and into the deep water. Tiny bubbles swim out of your mouth as you scan the surroundings. It is dark. Empty. Quiet.
The screams of the ocean are stifled into soft moans. You start to kick your legs fast even though it burns like fire. The lack of air makes your lungs feel as heavy as lead.
You pull your head above the water to catch some salty air. The sight of the tiny cave in the distance makes your blue lips curve upwards. The air soaks into your nose and mouth and the sensation is heavenly. But after that, you have to push your head back in and continue to kick your burning legs. Which still burns like hellfire.
After what seemed like eons of kicking and gasping for air, your weary arms brush against salty sand. Relief floods you. You pull yourself onto the land like a wounded animal. Feeble. Weak. Timid.
You stagger to the cave. The hard spiked sand pricks your numb white feet. The wintry wind wraps you in painful coldness which seems even colder around your soaked body.
The cave is grey and shallow. So shallow that it only holds enough space for one person. You've always wished that you were shallow and grey. You are grey and empty. But not shallow. You're deep, deeper than the deepest, most pristine seas, deeper than the most beautiful love. You are so deep that when someone thinks they know you, they are always wrong. Nobody knows. You are tangled up with things you shouldn't be tangled up with. When you are scared, when the shadows have overcome you, you have to hide. You cannot call the police, you have to run.
Because you are always hiding and running. There is no safe haven for you.
All your fantasies are broken and eradicated like buildings burning in orange flame.
You spend your days searching for plump fish and curling tightly in the cave to protect yourself from the cold hungry winds. The waves wash up things, shiny green glass which you use to make sharp knives to kill juicy fish, wet cardboard which you use to write secret messages and codes, and soaked food which is the most precious to you.
Your mind is only concerned about survival. The reflective cave walls remind you who you are, they remind you of your thin clear bones and your eel-black hair. They remind you of your eyes which are filled with sorrow and loss.
You weren't wise back in your days. You weren't constrained by convention. You were thinking about survival but in different ways. You were a spy...a good one. But soon people who you loved and cherished... turned against you. Left you. You ran. But they ran after you.
And now you are dead inside. You are more dead than people who lie in their silent graves. Because most people who lie in their graves are taken care of... still. They are given red red roses and that makes them alive. You are more dead than them.
Your arms are getting thinner, so thin that the strong winds would shake you. The skin underneath your eyes is eggplant purple, you don't sleep. You can't, you have to stay awake to watch and see if anyone is coming for you. You are a deer always on the lookout for hungry growling lions.
The waves are loud like howling wolves. The wind is whipping your face. A little boat comes into view. Dark chestnut and small as almonds. You see a pinkish face, with a sinister sneer and a curved moustache. The old man's pants are khaki green and his shirt is striped with faded pale colour blocks. The evening sun casts long shadows on his face. He is in disguise. You drop slimy fishbone that was in your hand a second ago and run.
You don't know where you'll run. You just must run. You might run off this island and into the torturous waves. You may find a boat and climb aboard. You might try to disguise yourself as a clown and entertain children at a cheap circus.
You don't know.
You throw your weak thin body into the crashing waves and pull yourself forward. The sky is bruised with sangria purple splotches, ready to burst apart into thunder. The sun is setting the sea ablaze in orange light.
You are on the edge.
You could die painfully today.
You could drown.
You could live.
You could get captured by your greatest enemy.
You don't know.
But a little thought inside of you whispers, Maybe I won't always be on the run.
You don't know.