This is a beach town. Everyone can swim around here. Or surf. The sea is busier than the city centre.
I have tried so hard. Everyone else learnt years ago, but I cannot get more than five paces into the water.
Imagine all your friends laughing at you. Imagine being the freak. I have not taken this decision lightly. Even now I am not sure if it is going to work. This is a rumour of a rumour.
The lights in the beach houses are dim. But the sand is toasted, and a purple tint darkens the sky. The last drops of neon from a bar sign frame a discarded surfboard.
Chunks of glass and shell hide in a cardboard box clenched between my hands. My tools. Soon I have drawn my lines upon the sand in various shapes, and my blood flows freely into the divots.
My head is woozy. But the next step is the hard part. The waves crash ever closer to my trainers, and that purplish light fills every drop.
I have to place my hand into the water. The fingers spark with electricity, each nail a shard of freezing glass. My heartbeat is a constant engine in my chest.
The shape that emerges from the water has sharp teeth. I knew it needed a few sips of blood. The pain is the glass all over again.
But I can join my friends in the water now. We can swim together in happiness, and all will gasp at how long I can hold my breath. I know my connection to the ocean will be deeper than all of them combined.
