On this day, she feels the soles of her feet plant firmly into the dirt of the earth that birthed her. She sprouts up; strong, withstanding, resistant to the fiery elements of the nebulas glimmering in her mind. Her fingers stretch out, feeling the minerals of the soil rush all the way to her coiled roots. The pads of her fingertips reach desperately for something. A feeling that she cannot explain but has tapped her beating heart before, like a small raindrop that no one else notices except you and the goosebumps on your bare arm.
She squints at the lighthouse in the distance, sitting upon the edge of the cliff that is privy to the unforgiving waves. The saltwater crashes against the pleats of the kilted rock, threatening to claim the desolate building as its own. The water whispers ferociously for her submission too, roaring at the edge of the earth she walks along.
The girl has heard stories. It is the worst way to go, someone tells her. An article declares it as the most euphoric way to succumb. Only one way to find out, of course. She pictures the intensity of molten lava spreading over the lining of her bronchioles. Maybe it would feel like when her hand sizzled flat against her mother’s burning stove. Her nerve-endings screeching for a white flag but the cavalry rejoicing when her soul felt like it re-entered her body for the first time in months.
She likes to think that the fire in her chest would burn red, yellow and blue. Primary. Obvious. Her deep oak skin finally brandishing colours it avoided in the fear of bringing too much attention to itself. On this day, no one is here to acknowledge her, her garments and what on earth brought her to this part of the world. She will burn yellow with arrogance. Perhaps the muted yellow of the sun bidding the cliffs farewell. Maybe the chipped mustard of her toenails, out to wish the sunshine a safe journey home.
Today she hopes the yellow flame will glow incandescently – dainty, light, feminine – her body representing itself how natives are reluctant to perceive it. This hue of her dreams is shyly seeping through the cracked glass of the lighthouse and reflecting against the slender blades of grass.
Howls of wind propel the heels of her feet forward. She meanders through the clouds, clambering over rocks which have withstood obnoxious tourists with their obnoxious voices and obnoxious camera lenses. And even worse, the test of time. Humans, as natural as solid minerals and crafted by the hands of the cosmos. Yet, for reasons bigger than she can fathom, time is not so gracious to sacks of blood, guts and overwhelming sentience.
The breeze pulls her to teeter over the edge of the cliff, carrying her by the tips of her toes. One unfortunate gust of wind meant it was not her choice. She didn’t mean to. It was a tragic accident. Unpreventable.
Sara Elbashir