The sun glides through the crystal waters. The hush of the waves as they lap against the golden sands. Windchimes jingle in the breeze. Birds natter.
Her skin bronzes. Her head is filled with nightmarish images that are, day by day, dissipating into the blue sky. The smell of blood caught in her nostrils is slowly replaced by seasalt. She still feels her arm as if it is there, a phantom clenching and unclenching its fingers.
Her weapons and armour are locked in a chest, buried deep in the heart of the island, to rust in shadow. Never to be seen again.
Ginger beer fizzles on the table beside her. She is recalled back, beyond the days of darkness, to a time when summers were a blur of ginger, peonies, sweat, games, and sun. To a time when she was not known or needed. To a time when she didn’t know what was to come.
Paddy Dobson
27th February 2022