Shells

*Trigger Warning(s): murder*

Shells

The summer we turned eighteen, Emmeline and I bought a beach house off the coast of California. Yet I say “Emmeline and I” meaning mainly just Emme, as money was never a problem for her; Emme, a runaway heiress, hazel eyes, reckless, overloaded credit cards and private beaches. 

The days stretched into weeks, months, filled with laughter and beach towels; towels striped with green, stained with sweat and pink lemonade. We would stuff ourselves with oysters and fries, greasy and piping fresh, and go swimming right after, neither paying any mind to the nauseousness that would settle soon after. Palm trees and sunsets, how idyllic it all was. 

We would look at our reflections in the moonlit waves, chestnut hair and white sundresses, gazing into the endless depths of yonder; of deep royal blue and the silver sprinkling of stars. And as the moon grazed our cheeks with her delicate touch, soothed our inner fears and cast her glow over the land; eerie, still; we’d lie down and talk about roses, dreams, and the beauty of it all. 

And when it rained, which it sometimes did so; we’d stay inside the cottage, watching the pitter-patter of the drops against the window, reading novels and magazines, brewing hot chocolate, then going outside to breathe in the after rain. And we’d close our eyes, feeling how the wet sand seeped in between our toes, how we could just taste the air- salty and bitter yet so, so, sweet. 

I loved her and she loved me, but we weren’t in love with each other. It was just friendship, strong, ever-lasting, unbreakable friendship, we promised, locking pinkies on the roof one late-summer night. The sun was setting, casting its final glow over the ocean and beach; and as our legs dangled over the edge of the tiles, over the sand and water, peach and baby blue, the shimmery coral string of friendship bound itself around our hands; twisting, entwining, running through our veins and blood, strong, ever-lasting, unbreakable. 

And I try not to think about that as now, now; ten years later, I’m standing on this same beach, and I try not to think about how the sand used to be pinker, softer, how I used to lie on this beach with Emme next to me, together, so near yet so far. Try not to think about how we used to watch the waves wash over our ankles, blue, standing where I am now. Try not to think about the fact that I’m here alone when I should be with her, Emme, Emme; sunshine and freckles, old money, carefree, laughter and seashells. Try not to think about the fact that she’s gone now, six feet beneath the ground, beneath the ground I’m standing on, dead, rotting, her beautiful face just bones, her hair decomposed; Emme, gone, buried. 

Try not to think about the fact that I was the one who took her life. 

And as I walk into the ocean, sinking deeper and deeper, watching the water, rippling with sunshine and sorrow, I close my eyes and submerge myself, letting my body drown, letting go, feeling the water cascade around me, in me, feeling the beauty of everything around me, the beauty of life and love and death. 

My body flails and my lungs burn, but I ignore the physical pain and just think about Emme, Emme; how Emme must have felt when I slit her throat that night, midnight, blood, Emme; how her eyes had gone wide with surprise and betrayal and then faded into nothingness, peacefulness; how she was now in a better place- a place without suffering and responsibilities and a best friend who killed you. 

The blade was meant for Esther, the blood was meant for Esther. Esther, her sister who was staying with us for a week, who Emme loved with all her heart- maybe the person she loved most after me- but had she seen what I had seen? Had my Emme, my beautiful Emme, seen her own blood sister laughing at the restaurant with her boyfriend, with Jax; had she seen them sharing calamari like she and he did, sipping from the same cup like she and he did, had she seen the way Esther leaned over and-

“Len?”

I can still remember her voice. I hadn’t told her, of course I hadn’t told her, I didn’t want to hurt Emme the way Esther did- and yet I ended up hurting her even more. Or did I? Maybe physical pain was never more for Emme than it is for me.

It was dark. They had switched beds, that’s all I know now. 

“Len!” 

Water. All I can feel is water, and silence, and pressure, and the burn of water around me, in me, the saltiness on the tip of my tongue. 

“Len? Leanora?” 

Emme? I force open my eyes, ignore the sting, and use all my remaining strength to look for her: a dash of brown hair, a speck of hazel irises. Could she really be here? Emme, here? Emme; my life, my love, Emme. 

“Len. I’m here, Len. Leanora, Len, I’m here.” 

Then I see it, her, a shimmery figure in the distance. Soft edges and long legs, floating hair, the dimple in her left cheek. Emme. Emmeline. But the world is blurring, burning, around me, and my brain is clogged with the sea and the blue. 

I reach a hand out to her, Emme, and in that instant, the world stops, and she reaches out her hand to me, too, and I don’t know if we touched because everything goes dark, and the world is gone, now, and so is Emme, but she saw me, and I saw her, and in that moment, I told her everything I wanted to say: I’m sorry, Emme, I never meant to, I love you, I miss you. I love you, Emme. Emme. 

And maybe it’s just my imagination, maybe, but I can almost hear her telling me that it’s okay, just like she used to, just like Emme used to when we were still young and stupid and eighteen and our hearts were filled with sand and laughter instead of pain. 

The last things I see

are Emme

and

shells.