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Right now, Britta is at the beach, lying on a large towel, her eyes closed. She’s wearing a scrappy, ripped sweater, blue jeans and fluffy slippers. Her curly, faded blonde hair lies above her head, untethered and sprawled against the sand. The sun rays pelt down with force on her pale, lubricated skin (ew). It’s hot today. The towel underneath her feels like a warm hug, the rough fur sinking further into her skin, eager to eat her alive. Britta opens her eyes, feeling woozy, and examines the sky.
Lush, cotton-candy clouds dance, looking delicious and ready to be eaten. Trickles of rain hint at the flood to come. Maybe Britta’ll be able to finally meet her non-existent makers. She lets out a contented sigh.
Britta looks to her left, before leaning back, concerned. This one tall, old woman lies stretched on a red and white chase long, eyes closed, singing a pop song to herself. There was something in the air that night... She’s slightly twisted towards Britta, her arms drooping towards the ground, as if she’s prepared herself to be taken. Is she waiting for Britta to get up from her blanket? Does she know? No, she’s just sunbathing. Her arms are just tired. Can’t a nice old lady sing to herself without worrying about people judging her? Hm, guess it was nothing.
Britta looks back up at the sky and lets the calm, happy feeling that was so rudely interrupted take her again. The tasty colours come back in full force, dancing the classic ballet of the year as she closes her eyes and lays herself against her blanket. Soon it will come and all will be right.
Time slows to a stop and Britta lets out a very unladylike cackle.
But then a slight feeling of unease picks up. Britta’s stomach acids start consuming her from the inside. Did she eat something bad? The sun starts searing and the fur prickles. Is it coming sooner than expected?
Britta sits up on her elbows and looks to her right. Another person yells profanities, running around in circles on the sand as someone else chases them. What the hell? They’re not performing the ritual, yet, are they? No. What is their goal? To unnerve Britta? To grab her attention? Do they know? How can Britta tell? Can she-? no, that’s ridiculous.
Britta turns her head forward, breathes out and briefly closes her eyes—It’s nothing. It’s all nothing.—before reopening them. (o_o). Britta jumps out of her skin. A woman wearing a teal dress stares directly at her, her eyes darted like that one emoticon thingy. >->. Right? The woman is stone still, like she’s frozen on her way to a mission. And the mission is Britta. Full, curly hair looks almost alive. Like snakes rearing their ugly heads (rude) at Britta. Those three heads of the wicked dragon of the west. Okay, Britta is really starting to mix metaphors. Anyway, the woman. She’s just standing there, menacingly. She knows. She knows what I am. Britta starts to breathe heavily.
She has to run.
What if I ate the sand?
Britta briskly stands up from the towel, turns to her right, and starts walking towards the water—the world spinning around her like a thingy that spins around other things.
(o_o). Britta stops, almost having a heart attack. A man sits in the water in front of her and stares directly at her. They’ve surrounded me. I can’t go anywhere. What can Britta do? Is she going to die here? Will she every day be shuffling? Britta gets down on her knees and plants the top of her head on the ground. “No! You will not get me!”
Coming out from the waves, walking towards his mom—who’s reading a book, lying on a blanket and underneath an umbrella—a boy watches Britta from across the beach. He turns to his mom. “Mom, what is that woman doing?”
His mom raises her head from her book to see Britta—who’s now making sand angels, laughing like a maniac—and then back at the book. “She’s as high as a kite, son.”