clocks

13

George

After I finally complain for long enough, I convince him to get into the water with me. I say complain, but what I really did was run away from him as I stripped out of my clothes, so he couldn't grab me or stop me from getting into the water. Then, I refuse to get out until he gets in.

He calls me childish, I say I'm strategic, to which he can't help but smile stupidly at.

We don't go out far, the water is much too cold and I don't know if he packed towels, so I decide to play it safe, only letting myself go so far that the water hits just about my stomach. He stands a bit further back, his t-shirt draped over his shoulder.

A few times, the water will come in and splash so heavily it will trail up my arms, causing my eyes to do the same, inevitably ending up on the pieces of skin that stick out from the rest.

When I turn to see if Dream is watching, for once, he isn't. He's washing off a sandy stone in the water, bringing it closer to his eyes once it's clean to get a better look at it.

Has he seen, I wonder? The whiter skin, the faded bumpy scars. With all of his staring, I suppose he has. So why hasn't he asked? Asked me about what they are, how I got them, why I got them, all of it. He probably thinks he'll sound rude. That'd be very like him to think.

The water comes back in, but this time, it splashes even harder then it had before, and the sensation of it sends a spiraling thought through my mind, one that I can't escape.

And suddenly, I'm on a different beach, a private beach, or maybe it's quiet, in Italy, with Quinn. The sun is just rising, I can tell by the sky. Though neither Quinn or I are wearing swimwear or shorts or anything suitable for a beach. Quinn is in her pajamas, I'm in a suit.

I recognize the memory. As the image comes to me properly, more clearly, I realize we're on the beach just a twenty minute walk from our villa. This was years ago, I think I was twenty four, meaning Quinn was probably twenty three.

I'm swaying where I'm stood, just in front of the water, when Quinn finally comes into view, running down the beach with no shoes on her. The suit I'm wearing feels too tight, I have the urge to rip it from my body. She's shouting, her words only making any sense to me once she gets closer.

"George?" she shouts, only getting really close when I turn to face her and she's sure that it's me. Her face— well, it mixes, from a lot of things. She looks tired, and angry, like she's in disbelief.

"What?" I ask, my voice coming out shockingly rude. For a moment, I wonder who's actually speaking before I realize it's me. Her mouth actually falls open as she gawks at me.

"What?!" she spits, gesturing a hand to nothing in particular. "Dont you dare fucking 'what,' me, where on earth have you been? Do you know how fucking worried I've been?" she shouts, still staring accusingly at me.

I feel the confusion rush through me. The wind from the water pelts heavily against my face, it's late October. Worried? Why should she be worried, and why about me? Where on earth have I been?

I've been here— I think slowly.

Haven't I?

She must see the look of complete unknowingness on my face, because she continues shouting without me even having to answer her. Her arms make it look like she's shaking, but whether it's from the anger or the cold from the wind, I'm not sure.

"If you weren't back by tomorrow I was going to call the police, George. I know we keep some things separate, but a phone call would've been nice. Just to let me know you were okay," she says, her voice sounding as though I've betrayed her in some way. I still have no idea what anything she's saying means. "Seriously, an entire week with nothing? I was starting to think you were dead in a river somewhere."