the beach

she had amethyst tangled in her hair

There was a girl with the hair the color of amethyst. Tattoos garnished her body, the ink leaping off her pale skin as if to cry out in a starved juvenile kind of way, "Notice me, please God just notice me." There was a tiger crawling across the top of her hand, and then there were letters that spelled "die free" across her knuckles. A horseshoe was placed behind her ear, and a cadillac was drawn onto the inside of her bicep. A simple smiley face was etched into her lower back. A tramp stamp, would be one way to refer to it. Then there were the initials engrained in the skin at the bend in her elbow, but she tried not to think about that because it made her chest tight.

She had a mean face too. She had metal lining her ear on the inside of her mouth, and her small nose. Her eye brows were harsh and defined. Her face was free of make-up, refusing to conform to the concept. Her wardrobe was a collection of garments that didn't belong. A laced bra looking piece from her mother's closet that she wore as a shirt, a heavy denim jacket adorned with spikes the shoulder. Some torn jean shorts that sat above her hips that had paint stains on them. A scarf was tied loosely around her neck, the material spilling onto her chest. A paper clip hung on a leather strap around her wrist, and she had clunky rings on each finger. 

Society was afraid of her. Something she savored and valued every day. She loved being feared. It gave her something to blame when she was all alone. 

She took a step towards the surf. She held her jacket around her tighter, the cool water munching up her pale skin. A gust of wind snuck up behind her and knocked a purple curl out from behind her ear. She hurriedly picked it back up and moved it back. She stood erect, her arms crossed firmly across her chest, as if to keep out the morning cool.

She bit the corner of her lip, staring down the beach's front. The waves crashed down in a vehement sort of way. They were violent, ruthless. They showed no mercy.

Mercy.

Her name. 

Given to her by a mother born into a gypsy family. All her mother wanted was a break. She just wanted things to be easy. She wanted mercy. 

Another wisp of hair fell forward, but she didn't touch it. She didn't see the point. She glanced up, the ocean still beating against the sand relentlessly. She took a step forward, her barefoot sinking into the sand. Her clunky boots were behind her, a pair of socks stretched out and draped over the side of them.  

For a moment her fingers stayed at her side, not moving. She thought about him for a moment. The way he would look at her the second she would pull a cigarette from her pocket. His lips would pinch in and he'd get quiet. Of course she hated that he hated it, but there was something in them she couldn't resist. 

She caved, and wrenched her pocket open and pulled a black lighter and a cigarette from it. She snapped her thumb down and a flame shot up from the lighter. Before she lit it, she let it hover in front of her face for a moment. Her steely eyes followed the flames with a child like curiosity. Like she had never seen fire before. 

The flame slowly licked the end of her cigarette. She smiled as she watched the smoke lift up to her nose. The sweet taste of addiction filled her mouth, and smoke spilled from her mouth as she exhaled. 

It was nice to not belong. To not have to worry about offending anyone, or stepping on toes. It was nice. She took a lazy drag, sneaking a toe into the surf, the cool foam ripping into her pale skin. She took a quick step back, the cold feeling like it was tearing at her feet. Her smoke drew hazy lines across her vision as she stepped back into the water. 

It was nice to not belong.