(Beach Sunset painted by Sawyer)
He gently dusted the sand off of her bare feet and helped her up the stairs to their hotel room. Or did he carry her? She wasn’t sure.
On her knees in the bathroom, head bent over the toilet with sandy hair hanging in her face, her world was spinning-getting smaller. The violent cyclone in her stomach was gnashing and churning. Her mouth watered up as searing bile crept up her throat which triggered the heaving and then the dry heaving and then the tears.
When she finished empting her stomach, she reached out for a towel to wipe the vomit and streaks of mascara off of her face. Wobbling on unsteady legs she emerged from the bathroom and stumbled into the empty hotel room. Confused, scanning the room, she spotted her purse near the bed dumped of all its contents on the ugly brown and yellow carpet- the kind you only see in places like the Quality Inn.
No room key. No wallet. Gone. He’s gone.
She let out the howl of an animal, like the spine tingling scream of a panther in the night. She clasped in a heap on the ugly carpet still screaming.
“No! No!” She cried out again and again- a skipping record. “He’s gone. Gone.”
She picked herself up from the floor and limped into the small kitchenette for another drink to help her think. And through blurry eyes, she spotted the knife set by the stove.
“Yes,” she moaned, slowly nodding her head. Gripping tight to the handle, she slid the butcher knife out of its place from the wooden block of knives.
“Yes,” she said again, staring at her reflection in the sleek, shiny blade.
And in one swift motion she sliced deep into her left wrist. Her tears fell, mingling with the blood flowing freely from the angry gash, as she absently wondered if one cut was enough to do it. Still drunk from the vodka, she slumped back against the cabinet in the small kitchenette.
The beach was beautiful today, she thought as she drifted off.