Page 74 of Wicked Beasts
The scent of the ocean reaches me first, a salty breeze that wraps around me, followed by the melodic gusts of wind that harmonize with the distant, rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. The sound cuts through the quiet, a stark contrast to the heavy silence of the forest threatening to swallow me. There's an unexpected comfort in it, one I’ve never known when visiting the beach before. Maybe it’s simply the relief of leaving the forest, of escaping its eerie quiet and the unnerving weight of the shadows that still cling to my mind.
My boots sink into the dry sand as I step out from the forest’s edge, my eyes drawn to the vast, dark ocean ahead. The waves crash relentlessly against the shore, their frothy edges tumbling and retreating in an endless cycle, as though the sea itself breathes.
The shoreline is littered with thousands of strange blue shapes scattered across the sand like some twisted, otherworldly treasure. At first, I think they’re Portuguese Man o’ War, their translucent bodies usually seen drifting along the surface and their long tendrils stretching out like ropes, waiting to ensnare anything that comes too close. The sight of them sends a chill through me, the memory of their painful sting still fresh in my mind from when I was a child with one wrapped around my ankle.
But as I step closer, squinting against the faint moonlight, something about the scene doesn’t sit right. These aren’t the bluebottle creatures I’m used to. They’re too fragile, too delicate. My breath catches in my throat as the truth settles in.
They’re not jellyfish at all.
They’re butterflies.
Countless tattered wings flicker in the wind, the soft, iridescent blue of their wings shimmering under the moonlight. Some of them are still, their lifeless bodies crumpled and abandoned on the sand, while others twitch weakly, as if desperately trying to lift off but failing, their wings crushed by the weight of whatever has befallen them. The sand is dotted with them like a graveyard.
A strange unease curls in my stomach. There’s something unnatural about the way they’ve gathered here to die.
I drop to my knees, cradling one as it clings to life, its movements weak and erratic.
The faint, unpleasant scent of decay lingers in the air, mixing with the briny tang of the ocean, sending a chill through my spine. Its delicate wings cease to flutter, and the small butterfly goes limp in my hand, a deathly stillness settling over it.
The waves roll steadily onto the shore, their powerful pull dragging the tiny, lifeless bodies into the depths, the relentless tide breaking the fragile wings with each crash against the sand.
I carefully lay the fragile creature back onto the sand and slip off my boots, feeling the coolness of nature beneath my feet. The sand, once harsh and gritty, now feels soft, almost comforting, against my skin. With each step, I move closer to the water's edge, drawn forward as if the ocean itself is calling me toward a watery grave.
Sixty-Six
Istep forward, each foot sinking deeper into the wet sand, the cool water lapping at my ankles. My breath quickens, but I don’t stop. The waves are gentle at first, almost soothing, as they rise and fall around my legs, urging me deeper. The night air chills my skin as the saltwater clings to me, seeping into the fabric of my clothes.
I push on, the water now swirling around my knees, then my thighs. It feels heavier now, as if the ocean is drawing me in as it adds weight to my clothes and pulls me further from the shore. My boots are long forgotten, left behind in the sand, and the sensation of the cold sea against my bare skin feels...comforting, in a strange way.
Almost like I belong here, like the abyss is calling me home.
It’s a relief after so much fear.
A melody drifts from the trees, the same song I’ve heard many times before.
It’s comforting. A lullaby.
Maybe I can finally forget.
With each step, the water climbs higher, brushing against my waist, my chest, the waves tugging at me as I walk further, deeper. The world feels quieter here, as though the crashingsound of the waves has muted, leaving only the gentle thrum of my heartbeat in my ears.
A little further.
I take another step, the water now just beneath my chin. My movements slow as the waves start to push against me, stronger, as though they’ve sensed my resolve.
And then, suddenly, the water shifts.
I don’t know when it happens—whether it’s a gust of wind, or something more—but before I can draw another breath, something grabs me from behind. A sharp pressure forces my head down, submerging me under the water. Cold rushes in, filling my lungs, choking me.
I gasp, thrashing, fighting against the invisible force holding me beneath the surface. The water is all around me, heavy and suffocating, as I struggle to find the surface. It’s like I’m drowning in something more than just the ocean—there’s a weight, a presence pressing against me, not of the sea, but something else, something darker. I think someone is holding me under. Fingers wrap around my neck.
My limbs flail, but it’s no use. I can’t break free. The world above the water feels miles away, the last gasps of air slipping from me as I’m held down. My chest tightens, panic surging through my veins, but no matter how hard I fight, the pressure keeps me there. Salt and a lack of oxygen burn my lungs. The water floods my vision, blurring the edges of reality, until all that remains is the cold, suffocating grip that refuses to let go.
I see threads of dull gold floating in the dark abyss, strands of golden hair drifting through the water like lifeless strands of seaweed. For a brief, fleeting moment, my mind latches onto a thought—Cordelia. She must be here, her golden hair swaying in the current, pulling me deeper into the ocean's grip.
But something is not right.
The hands gripping the back of my neck are too large, too strong to belong to a woman. They're rough, calloused, fingers like iron bands, tightening around my throat with each passing second. Panic floods my chest, the sensation of being suffocated turning my world to black. I can’t seem to look away from the hair floating before me, like a trap woven from the very threads of my mind’s confusion.
