The Watcher
Escape is never certain.
She flinched at the sound.
The sickly wet pulse thundered in her ears. Like heavy, leather-soled boots pounding against soaked cobblestones as soldiers marched through another city, in a fever dream of some half-remembered occupation.
The monotonous thrum reverberated down the side of her neck as she made it to the beachhead. In the distance, she saw a searchlight drawing nearer.
Her hand moved instinctively to her face and clamped around her mouth. An attempt to suffocate the sound of her frantic gulps of air.
It was so close now.
She threw herself against the ancient stone, still standing sentinel along the shore. With eyes slammed shut and breath held firm, she lay motionless.
A blazing white beam cut through the fog and swept across the beach. It nearly caught her, and would have, if not for the shade she clung to. The light seemed to pause, as if it sensed her presence.
Tears streaked down her cheeks, mixing with the snot and slobber leaking out from behind the hand still clamped tight against her teeth. A shrill whine in her ears erupted into a screeching whistle, as her body, desperate for air, sounded the alarm.
Then it began to inch away.
As the searchlight faded into the distance, she let loose her hand and fell forward into the sea's wash, choking and gasping. She sat up sobbing and wiped the mess from her face before leaning back against her stone protector.
Her entire body trembled violently as she tried to massage the feeling back into her legs. The sea was so cold and unforgiving.
She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She wasn't free. Not yet. She knew it would keep searching, that it would never stop.
Pressing her hand flat against the familiar stone, she pushed herself to her feet.
She’d stood here before, in this very spot. More times than she could remember. But she was worried. If she failed tonight, she might not have the strength to try again.
Another frigid wave crashed over the beach and chilled her to the bone. She was scared to look down. Even in the dark, she knew it wasn't water.
It was her memory. Reaching and clawing with its icy grasp. Attempting to pull her back out, to the endless, churning currents. Unwilling to let her go.
This wasn't the first time she’d tried to escape it.
But she feared it might be her last.
This story was inspired by a visual prompt by John Watson - Horror Author.
About Liminal Space Creative
Independent creator attempting to spill the messy worlds in my head onto the page. At present, I am attending online design school as part of a very unexpected and unplanned career change. This space is where I will share random pieces of the journey: inspiration, experiments, school projects, and lessons I learn along the way.