Samantha Lee Week 130: Beaches

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Beaches

I don't get the beach thing. I mean, sure, beaches are swell and all - like oases on steroids, truth be told - but, human tendency to congregate there by the droves aside, I've always found beaches to be...more castaway, less spring break. I once spent ten years stuck on a beach, mind you, without even a volleyball to personify and keep me company, so I may be a tad on the bias side.

Do you know what there's to do on a beach? I mean, a real, ocean-bound beach? You can't swim because of the salt water. You can sun tan but, honey, you're on a freaking beach - sun bathing is like breathing, a task completed whether you want it to be or not simply by virtue of living. May as well try to keep the wind from ruffling your hair or the rain from getting your shoes wet.

Ah, shoes. I missed shoes. And shopping. I really, really missed shopping. And my wardrobe - I had some truly beautiful gowns, once upon a time. My favourite, an icy blue silk number with delicate silver snowflakes sewn into the bodice, was worn by my stepmother at her sham of an ascension. There was not enough retail therapy in the world to ease that particular humiliation. I missed my kitchen. And cooking. I missed my cats and the comfort they brought me. I missed my wraiths and the friendship and security they gave me. I missed...oh, gods, the list was endless. I used to lie on that stupid beach, looking up at a velvet sky studded with diamond-like stars, and think about all the things I missed because I had to hang out all alone on a deserted beach in the middle of nowhere. I had to regain my strength, heal, hide. I...I have more power than any other being walking the earth and there I was, reduced to hiding.

After centuries of Hell, of torture, of pain, I escaped. Or was rescued. It's...I'm a little foggy on the exact details. Just remember waking up on the beach, freed from one prison but trapped on another until I recharged. Because that's what my...that's what happened to me. I was left in a deep, dark, freezing hole and...I was left there. I was a child and I was left there. I was an adult on the beach. An adult with a shattered soul, a broken mind, and a wrecked body. It took me ten years to get off that island. Ten years to get away from all that sand and the endless whooshing sound of the waves and...and if I die without ever seeing another palm tree it will be too soon. I hate...I loathe those stupid trees. And coconuts, dear gods, why in the world anyone would ever want to eat a freaking furry nut is beyond me. FURRY! I thank the gods every morning, noon, and night that eating is optional for me rather than necessary. It's the small things, you know?

Beaches. Mortals flock to them in droves, dream about them, obsess over them, picture them as the ultimate paradise.

Mortals, I've come to learn, are freaking nuts.

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