Free Writing in the Sand by Helen Brandom

and now I’m sitting in the lapping saltwater. I know I should move, make an attempt to stand up. But the cold sea, seeping into my jeans – making wet balloons between the harsh denim and my sore skin – feels so good. Too good, because it makes me want to stay here with the water washing round my waist. Now up to my breasts. They’re sore, and this soothes them. In front of me, at eye level, the reflection of the moon stretches away in a narrowing ribbon of light, until it meets the real thing high above the horizon. I don’t feel the cold, and somehow I know this is wrong. I think of Mum alone at home. Beside me, Toffee shakes himself, and the spray on my face knocks sense into my stupid head.
    I don’t, after all, want to slip under the water and drown.
    Wondering why I took my trainers off, I push them back on, and though my fingers don’t want to work, I force them to tie knots in the laces.
    I’m nearly home, and weeping. Which must be exhaustion. Also I’m worried Mum might have woken and noticed Toffee gone. I hate the thought of her going downstairs – even if she does read my note and assume everything’s all right.
    Each step up through the dunes seems hardly possible. Even Toffee has slowed down. Reaching the ridge top, I’m afraid to look at our house in case there’s a light on.
    But there isn’t. The whole place is pitch-black, the roof and chimney silhouetted against the sky – lighter now because the clouds have moved away. But even as I sigh with relief, a light goes on. My heart hammers. I wait a few seconds, praying Mum will switch it off again.
    She doesn’t, and I know I have to reach the house and get indoors quickly. We cross the lane, Toffee and me, and somehow I make a rush for the front door.
    I know Mum’s at the top of the stairs, but – like I haven’t spotted her – I softly call out, “Hi?”
    Toffee, his tail circling madly, is up and beside her in three bounds. Mum grabs one of his ears. “Amy…?”
    I struggle with the wet knots in my trainers, give up, wrench them off and start dragging my jeans down. I try not to let her see how heavy they are with seawater. “Sorry if we woke you, Mum. I heard Toffee scratching your door. He needed to go out.”
    â€œBut you’re drenched!” She strokes Toffee’s head. “And this one’s sopping wet.”
    Pulling the top sweater over my head muffles my voice. “There was a sudden downpour,” I say, and hope she won’t look out to see how wet it is.
    â€œYou could at least have put a parka on.”
    I try to laugh. “Mad, aren’t I? But I didn’t know it was going to rain.” Bare-legged, I take a couple of steps to the bottom of the stairs. “Can I get you anything, Mum? Hot chocolate?”
    She starts coming down. “You look as if you’re the one who could do with a hot drink.”
    I start up the stairs. “Mum, go back to bed—” But my knees buckle, and the next minute I’m in a heap at her feet.
    â€œAmy – sweetheart! What’s wrong?”
    â€œMum, I’m so sorry, I—”
    â€œThere’s nothing to be sorry about, love,” she says, and I can tell how, for a few seconds, she’s glad to be able to take on the role of a mum looking after her daughter. She puts a hand out. “Come along, let’s get you into bed.”
    â€œMum, I’m all right. Honestly. It’s just I’ve got such a pain…” With my voice trailing off, I try to control the shudder going through me.
    â€œYou’ll feel better tomorrow, love, the first day’s always the worst.”
    I cling to the lifeline she’s thrown me and look up. “Sorry, Mum – I know what you mean now.” I rub my belly. “The last time I came on, the cramps weren’t as bad as this.” I take a deep breath, get to my feet. “I’ll