Stranded [harry styles] ✓

2

Sandpaper.

My throat, my chest, my lungs. They feel like sandpaper.

The skin on my lips is sharp and jagged like slate. And my tongue—even my tongue is dry.

I try and cough but it tears through me like a blunt dagger and I end up wheezing like someone who has chain smoked for sixty years. Why is everything so dry?

There's pain in my left arm.

Why is there pain in my arm?

It aches—or does it sting?

My eyes flicker to the left and I see it—right at the top of my arm, millimetres away from my shoulder. A gash about 10cm long, outlined in sticky congealed blood. There's something stuck to it too—like a fine grain.

Dirt?

It's sort of beige in colour and twinkles in the light—like ground down crystal.

Sand?

Why is there sand stuck to my arm? Why have I been bleeding?

I roll my head upwards and realise I'm laying down—although sprawled out is probably more accurate. My fingers and toes are buried in this warm sand but something tells me this isn't for therapeutic purposes.

My toes.

I'm sure I had been wearing Converse. I've lost my shoes.

Did I do drugs?

My Aunt would never have condoned it. Did I meet someone in the airport? Did I get spiked?

I pull myself up so that I'm kneeling and I wince. My neck is stiff. I feel like I have whiplash—was there a car accident?

When I finally focus on my surroundings, all I can see is the sea. A thick layer of never-ending bottle-green. It's beautiful—like glass.

But this doesn't really look like the beach. Where are the sandcastles and the windbreaks? There are no lifeguards or surf boards or children bobbing around with armbands on. In fact, there's nobody here at all.

I look closer. There are foreign objects bouncing in amongst the waves, breaking the idyllic view. Huge chunks of debris and other variously coloured objects—but what exactly? And why? 

I'm knelt right on the shoreline and for the first time I realise that I'm soaking wet. My thin jersey t-shirt clings to my skin and my jeans are heavy on my legs. They're torn across my right shin—a large jagged hole. Not the fashionable kind in the knees. There's congealed blood there too.

The instantaneous feeling of panic is nearly overwhelming. I have no recollection of arriving here or sustaining these injuries or evidently going for a swim. I think my eyes should be welling up with anxious tears but those too have dried up—the tear ducts now depleted.

"Jules!" I attempt to call out—hoping my Aunt is suddenly going to appear out of nowhere. A fire burns in my throat, scorching my vocal chords.

"Thank God. You're alive. Someone is alive." A voice responds—thick with relief. But it's not Jules. It's not even female. 

I spin around and stagger to my feet—squinting as the sun burns down on me. Its so hot. Too hot. The world spins for a moment but eventually settles on a tall frame with a thick mop of lank hair. There's a cut above his left eyebrow that has dried and matted the dark hairs arching over his eye. His eyes are kind—but they are also panicked and sad.

The t-shirt that I assume was once white is now blood stained and dirty. The left sleeve has been completely torn off and the material is damp and clinging to his skin—much like mine. Dark outlines can be seen through the fabric. Tattoos.