So, she sat there, mouth-breathing for quite some time. All day, in fact. She couldn’t help it--she could still taste the cloying salt that lingered in the back of her throat. One of many physical remembrances of her romance with the sea, her bloody, suffocating romance, which had taken place in the crux of the night, where most everything was shrouded in deep black, save for the stars.
Mabel now sat at home, her body clearly still reliving the horrors that shook her just nine hours prior. Her hair, to start, was unsightly. In deep auburn, each long strand seemed to have knotted, turning the sleeping braid that hung at the nape of her neck into a robust tree root--fibrous and coarse. Her left cheek was supremely scraped by the unforgiving bed of basalt she had landed on. From her pinkish skin rose fine aisles of deep crimson, now scabbed and dry. She couldn’t keep from feeling them with her fingers when her mother wasn’t around to tell her any better. Much to her chagrin, the fragile, hand-hemmed skirt to her nightgown that her mother had so insistently taught her to make had been pulled away, senselessly, with one fell swoop of a wave. And her left arm, beneath the tan of the bandages which she found quite constricting, was the same fresh, red unquiet of a nasty scab.
She had become a warrior, dazed, mouth-breathing, body donning the evidence of her battle. Well into the afternoon, she sat at her too-small work desk, knees drawn to her chest and shoulders tense. Despite the lingering heat of the early autumn, goosebumps dotted her arms and legs—at least where the scabs did not.
Mabel now sat at home, her body clearly still reliving the horrors that shook her just nine hours prior. Her hair, to start, was unsightly. In deep auburn, each long strand seemed to have knotted, turning the sleeping braid that hung at the nape of her neck into a robust tree root--fibrous and coarse. Her left cheek was supremely scraped by the unforgiving bed of basalt she had landed on. From her pinkish skin rose fine aisles of deep crimson, now scabbed and dry. She couldn’t keep from feeling them with her fingers when her mother wasn’t around to tell her any better. Much to her chagrin, the fragile, hand-hemmed skirt to her nightgown that her mother had so insistently taught her to make had been pulled away, senselessly, with one fell swoop of a wave. And her left arm, beneath the tan of the bandages which she found quite constricting, was the same fresh, red unquiet of a nasty scab.
She had become a warrior, dazed, mouth-breathing, body donning the evidence of her battle. Well into the afternoon, she sat at her too-small work desk, knees drawn to her chest and shoulders tense. Despite the lingering heat of the early autumn, goosebumps dotted her arms and legs—at least where the scabs did not.
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