You’re not supposed to stare at the sun.
That’s what Maia’s grandfather used to say. It’s not the only danger he warned her against, nor the only advice she’s ignored. But hindsight, as he also used to say, is twenty-twenty. She didn’t understand that then. But now…
The Pacific Ocean is a placid blanket, gently carrying Maia’s disintegrating raft atop its soft crests as she lies on her back, listening to her shallow breathing and staring directly at the sun.
It is her final act of defiance.
Maia is dying. Of this, she is completely sure. It’s not the first time she has greeted death since she left the shores of New Zealand not so long ago. No, the face of death has come to her in many forms.
There was a time it had slept beside her, subtle and silent and cruel. It wrapped itself around her so gradually she hadn’t even noticed until she became so weak she could barely stand. Another time, death came as rabid and violent as a wrecking ball. Impossibly fast, it lifted her from the ground, staring deep into her eyes before throwing her across the room.
But somehow, Maia has always managed to evade death’s icy grip—until today.
Today, the form of death has taken a much gentler shape. Its sweet breath sweeps across her sunburned cheeks as it softly whispers It is time. And for once, Maia does not fight back. She does not scream nor plead nor beg. Today, as she lies on a raft in the middle of the ocean, she knows death has come as a reprieve. Because for the first time in a long time, she does not feel hungry or thirsty—despite the fact that she is, and desperately so.
It is a kindness, really. A gift from the universe before taking her spirit to wherever it is that it goes. The disappearance of hunger and thirst are signs that death is near. Just there … hovering near the edge like a wild and ravenous animal. Maia knows this because she read about it in some dusty old book stacked between more dusty old books in her grandfather’s library.
But that was before. Back when her heart was brimming with possibilities, her mind bursting with dreams—or that one dream in particular, beckoning to her each night.
That was before Maia had fallen in love. Before she had ever known the feeling of a man’s lips against her own. She looks at him now, at the slow rise and fall of his belly. Those same lips are now ghostly white against his reddened skin, cracked and peeling from the sun. The salt. The lack of water, despite being surrounded by it.
Her grandfather tried to warn her, had fought so hard to keep her safe. He told her she was foolish. That her dreams were nothing but a death wish. But Maia couldn’t see. Wouldn’t see.
She turns to the shell of a man lying beside her. “I am so sorry,” she whispers, reaching a trembling hand for his.
But he can no longer hear her.
That’s what Maia’s grandfather used to say. It’s not the only danger he warned her against, nor the only advice she’s ignored. But hindsight, as he also used to say, is twenty-twenty. She didn’t understand that then. But now…
The Pacific Ocean is a placid blanket, gently carrying Maia’s disintegrating raft atop its soft crests as she lies on her back, listening to her shallow breathing and staring directly at the sun.
It is her final act of defiance.
Maia is dying. Of this, she is completely sure. It’s not the first time she has greeted death since she left the shores of New Zealand not so long ago. No, the face of death has come to her in many forms.
There was a time it had slept beside her, subtle and silent and cruel. It wrapped itself around her so gradually she hadn’t even noticed until she became so weak she could barely stand. Another time, death came as rabid and violent as a wrecking ball. Impossibly fast, it lifted her from the ground, staring deep into her eyes before throwing her across the room.
But somehow, Maia has always managed to evade death’s icy grip—until today.
Today, the form of death has taken a much gentler shape. Its sweet breath sweeps across her sunburned cheeks as it softly whispers It is time. And for once, Maia does not fight back. She does not scream nor plead nor beg. Today, as she lies on a raft in the middle of the ocean, she knows death has come as a reprieve. Because for the first time in a long time, she does not feel hungry or thirsty—despite the fact that she is, and desperately so.
It is a kindness, really. A gift from the universe before taking her spirit to wherever it is that it goes. The disappearance of hunger and thirst are signs that death is near. Just there … hovering near the edge like a wild and ravenous animal. Maia knows this because she read about it in some dusty old book stacked between more dusty old books in her grandfather’s library.
But that was before. Back when her heart was brimming with possibilities, her mind bursting with dreams—or that one dream in particular, beckoning to her each night.
That was before Maia had fallen in love. Before she had ever known the feeling of a man’s lips against her own. She looks at him now, at the slow rise and fall of his belly. Those same lips are now ghostly white against his reddened skin, cracked and peeling from the sun. The salt. The lack of water, despite being surrounded by it.
Her grandfather tried to warn her, had fought so hard to keep her safe. He told her she was foolish. That her dreams were nothing but a death wish. But Maia couldn’t see. Wouldn’t see.
She turns to the shell of a man lying beside her. “I am so sorry,” she whispers, reaching a trembling hand for his.
But he can no longer hear her.
RSS Feed