Pink Tint

less than 1 minute read

So much blood.

My joints crack as I stand from scrubbing the plank floor and my head swims. The chlorine vapours sting my eyes and I breathe shallowly, careful to avoid another coughing fit.

I walk to the bay window of the stilt-house and look out at the ocean’s horizon, wondering if I’d be lucky enough. Would the tide draw him into the channel current? I only need to buy a few days, maybe a week.

They’d find him, of course. The miserable bastard wouldn’t have the courtesy to simply disappear.

The ashtray. What would I do with it? I found it years ago on this beach, before the house and before things went to shit. The biggest clam shell I’d ever seen.

It feels so good in my hands, alive with its dark purpose. A beachcomber’s blade. Meant for him. Meant for my freedom.

I think I’ll keep it.

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