Blood Ties

Chapter2-TheChoice

Sera

Earlier

My hands are shaking so badly I have to pin them against my thighs.

It's subtle enough that no one else would notice. I've learned how to do that — how to keep things small, contained, private. I press my palms down, feel the denim beneath them, the solidness of my own legs, and breathe through my nose like that might be enough.

Get it together, Sera, I tell myself, like my name is an anchor I can hold onto.

The beach is loud with normal life. Waves. Wind. A couple arguing quietly near the car park. Somewhere behind me, a gull screams like it's offended by existence itself. Everything is fine. Everything is exactly the way it should be.

Which means it won't last.

I came here because it's easy to disappear at the edge of things. No one expects much from you when you're looking at the ocean. You can sit with your thoughts and call it reflection instead of avoidance. You can pretend the past isn't pacing just behind you, waiting for you to slow down.

I tell myself this is just a bad day. That the tightness in my chest is anxiety, not instinct. That the feeling crawling up my spine isn't memory.

People think fear is loud. That it announces itself with sirens and screaming and shaking hands you can't control.

They're wrong.

Real fear is quiet. It settles in early. It waits.

I glance down at my phone again, even though there's nothing new on the screen. No missed calls. No messages. No names I don't want to see lighting up my life.

Good.

No one knows I'm here.

That's the point.

I stand and brush the sand from my jeans, pressing my palms hard against my thighs until the shaking stops. Or at least until I can pretend it has.

The car is parked close enough that I can see the edge of it from here. One turn. A few minutes. I could be gone before the feeling in my chest finishes forming into something I'd have to name.

I don't move.

The ocean keeps breathing behind me, patient and indifferent. The rocks ahead are darker, sharper, less worn by the tide. I tell myself I just want to look — that I won't go far, that I'll turn back once the air in my lungs stops feeling so thin.

Instead, I turn toward the rocks and keep walking.

I've always been bad at leaving when I should.