peculiar winds

"I almost died, mum!"

There was never an outrageously windy day in Crosby -- or so I thought. To me, wind was always ideal when living in a coastal town. I've always found the feeling of inhaling cold gusts quite relaxing, especially when my mind was bothered, and my chest; pounding with anger. Typically, if I couldn't think straight, I'd sit at the beach (which I lived across from,) and stare at the sparkling ocean; letting the breeze carry away my burdens. This is, of course, what I decided to do one day in March, after losing my rag at school; Emily Doyle spent the entire day telling the entire class that I had shoplifted from her father's shop. So I threw her backpack out a window! I yanked it off her back, and tossed it. Of course, I got a detention for that, and a far more tarnished reputation.

So, I went to the beach, sat atop the sand, and let the wind take away my thoughts. Soon enough, the wind wasn't just carrying my thoughts. I felt my hair flailing violently, and I watched the tides grow higher and higher. But once my backpack began to leave the ground, I knew something awful was happening.

I've felt winds going at 16kmh, 32kmh, and even 80kmh. But this was something far quicker, and a lot more powerful -- human-like, even. When the wind finally grew too heavy, I picked myself up off the sand, threw my black backpack over my shoulder, and began to sprint. Yet once I was up, I was pulled down once more, and I was being engulfed by the ocean. As I clasped onto the sand with one hand, and held my backpack tightly with the other, I felt the cold rush of water scraping against my body. Gritty seaweed began to wrap itself around my legs, and tiny pebbles were scratching at my hands; I was also ingesting an unhealthy amount of sea-water. It felt like something out of an apocalyptic film, in which I was the first one to die. My mind was racing; one side of my brain was flashing childhood memories second-by-second, and the other was figuring out how to get out of this mess. Luckily, my fight-or-flight response was overtaken by fight; as the tide began to retreat, I used my backpack as a sort of grappling hook, and threw it until I was able to pull myself out. Once I was out, I fell to my knees and began to cough up sea-water violently. But I didn't let it stop me; I got back up on my feet, and raced back home with great force, as the wind was still ferocious.

I was forcing myself off the beach, and down the pavement, with a wet uniform, wet hair, and wet trainers, taking endless lefts and rights. As I ran, I clasped onto the rough, brick fences that bordered homes. I'd occasionally be pushed to the floor, or thrown against the bricks. But, nonetheless, I made my way home, like a knight after battle; marching across the drawbridge, and entering my castle. 

Once I was inside, I forced my door closed, and took a hard fall to the wood-floor. 

"Oh dear, Liz, is that you?" my mum yelled across the house. Ignoring this, I ran up the stairs and into the bathroom; shutting the door, and sitting myself down at the edge of the bath. Flooded with distress, I put my head in my hands, and began to sob -- the tears were rapid. Whatever happened did not feel like anything natural. It wasn't just a strong breeze; it was a living force that I believed wanted me dead. Sniffling, I took a look at my legs, which were covered in bright red scratches, and spotted with indigo bruises all around. This was gut-wrenching, and I began to sob again. I felt my mum's footsteps pattering against the floor. She opened the door, and glanced at me.

"Oh my god, what has happened to you?" mum walked towards me and got down on her knees, inspecting my scratches. 

"This is just awful, are you alright?" The tender love and attention got to me, and I began to sob louder. "Why are you crying?" "Was it the weather?" "How'd you get all these scratches?" With all the interrogations I was getting from my mum, I was unable to answer in an audible manner -- I didn't even want to answer.

"I was- it was- I almost" I tried answering in between sobs. 

Eventually, I was able to gain back my composure, and I answered.

"I was at the beach, and it got really windy. So I ran, but then I got stuck in the tide and couldn't get out."

"You mean the ocean?" mum inquired.

"Yes!"  I felt tears welling in my eyes.

"Well Liz, what were you doing at the beach again?" Gosh if I told mum what I had done, she'd end up narky for the rest of the evening. 

"I had a bad day" mum's face lulled. She didn't bother to ask me why my day was bad. Lately everyday has been an endless chain of sitting at the beach, and waiting for the Gallagher's to stop by for dinner.

"Liz, something has been up with you lately." Was she joking?

"Argh!" I groaned in frustration. "I almost died, mum! You know what's been up? Dad's dead, I'm not treating this like nothing, that's what's happening!" I was no longer on the verge of tears; I was angry -- angry that my mum was far more concerned with my bad behavior rather than the blood streaked on my legs.

"Liz, I understand. I'm gutted as well. But I can't be angry about it all the time. You've just got to deal with things better. You don't always have to have a bad day!" 

"Sure, I'll just act like dad never existed, and constantly be happy. No childhood, no memories, no explosive car crash!"

"Elizabeth! Why would you-" Her words were cut quickly by a light knock on the door.