Made for the Waves II: A short story

I've seen mother bow her head and move her lips slowly with words I could barely hear. She must have been praying because there were days she would throw herself on the mat and weep so hard. This God, whoever He is, must have a thing for sad stories. I know because mother never prayed when she was happy. And if happiness was a place that people go to, then I was far from setting off on that journey.So I prayed. Mostly into my palms because I feared the words may flow out of the window.The pain never ended. It came in portions with every single sunrise. He wouldn't stop touching me, pressing against my skin. I stopped pushing away the food he offered me. I've never known that hunger could be this crippling. Now I eat; I put both hands in the bowl he places in front of me and I swallow without chewing- as though I'd lose its nutrients with every bite I make, as though the meal was the only thing keeping me alive.I didn't close my eyes anymore when he pulled off his pants and stared down at me. I would look at him and wonder if he has a name, if he goes home to a family, if he's ever been hurt, if he goes to bed haunted by me.I imagined myself as a walking fire in his dreams. Chasing him, pulling him to me, and burning him in my flames. In the dream, he runs away from me, terrified. In his dream, I won- every single time.On the day his nightmare seeped into reality, I was not ready. I was hungry, picking up the remaining grains of rice from yesterday when he staggered through the door- drunk. There was a slur to his words, he seemed to be calling me names, struggling with difficulty to locate his flap, and when he did, he moved the zipper up and down. Up and down. I stared, panicked by the sight. He took a step towards me, asking me to take off my dress for the third time that day. It came out as a plead than his usual command.That's when I saw the door still open, so close I thought I smelled mother's fish and father's herbs. Home. A wave of urgency washed over me as I sprung to my feet. He caught hold of my dress, shouting my name. I stopped in my tracks. He'd never called me by my name before. I'd been his slave, his victim, there had been no need to call me by a name.But suddenly, he was falling, breaking down beneath the weight of his own deeds, and somehow, I had become human again. One with a name, and a will.That was all it took for me to break free from his hold, leaving with him a ripped piece of my dress. I bolted. Rushing through the door and losing a step on the narrow stairs. I landed cold on my naked buttocks and heard his heavy footsteps making an unsteady progress towards the stairs. I kept running.My heart beat out of my chest. I was crying, screaming out. To anyone. I listened for the sound of waves and carried myself to it. People watched. People called out. I wanted my mother, steering away from the townspeople, unsure as to who was a threat and who was help. A woman grabbed me from the back and covered me in a cloth. Warmth. Tender. But I struggled, kicking against her. She didn't let go. She held me, telling me everything was okay, calling out my mother's name.I lay unconscious in her arms and saw a blurry figure of a woman emerging from the crowd. Mother. She screamed, raising her hands to her chest. The last thing I saw was her head buried in the sand, and her hands lifted up towards the sky. Mother was praying again. This must be a different form of grief.The kind that waits and hopes. That kind that awakes with an ache in the heart and some unknown kind of strength. The kind of grief that comes home holding questions in the eyes and songs in the breasts. The kind of pain, of loss, that knows that home is not drowning in the ruins of the wreckage and wishing the lost were there with you. It is keeping your head above the waters, knowing, with stubborn faith, that the lost will come back to you- however they can.I heard the pounding roar of the waves and imagined myself walking out from it. And this time, mother was with me.