The woman tasted sand in her mouth. She raised her head ever so slightly and spat it out, but tiny grains remained stuck between her teeth and under her tongue.
Ocean water splashed over her skin, sending a shiver through her body. The waves were gentle, but also freezing cold—hardly a pleasant sensation to awaken to. There was pain as well, in specific spots all over her body. She felt as though the chilling salt water were lapping at gaping wounds.
The woman mustered the strength to raise her right arm for inspection. A hideous burn mark stained the back of her hand, with two more spots near her elbow and armpit. The wounds looked old, though, and thoroughly scarred. She was not seriously hurt, but the tide beating against her scars felt like sandpaper.
The woman crawled up the beach to get away from the waves, like a wild animal shying away from a bright fire. She did not stop until the waves could only reach her toes. She felt weak, depleted, and her muscles were sore, as if she had been working them all night and into the morning—presumably to avoid drowning. There was a splitting pain in her head.
She lifted her gaze. The sun was high overhead, quickly drying her out, the biting cold of the waves swiftly replaced with intense heat. She was surprised that she had not been badly sunburned already, though she was starting to sweat.
The woman summoned what little strength she had to push herself upright. Her hair drooped around her—long, crimson, and crusted with sand. She felt a vain compulsion to try to clean it out, but she had bigger problems to deal with at the moment—the most pressing of which suddenly became clear to her.
She did not know who she was. She could not even recall her own name. The woman managed to raise her head again and looked around the scorching beach she had discovered herself upon. Nobody was around, except for noisy gulls and some skittering crabs.
She looked to her left. The beach stretched on for miles, nothing but endless sand and the occasional patch of palm trees.
She looked to her right. An estate stood upon a small cliff overlooking the ocean, a few hundred feet away. It was a lavish structure, large and beautiful, with modern, angular architecture. It was semi-isolated from the rest of the land by a stone ridge, through which ran a rocky tunnel, barely wide enough to allow a single car through. It looked like the perfect private beachside home.
Gathering the strength to stand, the woman shambled towards the estate. Perhaps she lived there. If not, hopefully someone there could help her. Better yet, they might even know who she was and what she was doing here.
The sand was searingly hot, but it did not burn her feet. The woman found that strange; the cold of the water had been unbearable on her skin. She was aware of the intense heat of the sand and the sun, making her sweaty and uncomfortable, but somehow, she was not harmed by either.
A long dirt path led from the edge of the beach up through an opening in the small cliffs that separated the house from the shore. The woman slowly began to climb it with significant effort. A bout of dizziness assaulted her partway up the path, and she slumped to her knees with labored breaths.
Then a beautiful sound struck her ears. She recognized it at once: someone was playing the piano. It sounded hauntingly familiar somehow. Maybe she really did live here.
The woman summoned the will to get back on her feet. She kept moving towards that lovely music, a melancholy yet soothing tune. In truth, it made her want to lie down and take a long, perhaps interminable rest, but she persisted.
The dirt path led to a driveway. Nearby, the house had a porch suspended over the edge of the small cliffs. The sliding glass door had been left open, and the music was coming from inside. Entranced by the sound, the woman shuffled along the porch instead of going to the front door. She knew it would be proper to ring the doorbell, but she felt drawn to the sound like a sailor to a siren.
She stepped up to the edge of the open doorway, but she did not enter. Within, sitting with his back to her, was a smartly dressed man with a mop of curly black hair, his hands dancing over the piano keys. His movements were flowing, yet also precise and powerful. Though she could not see his face, she imagined his eyes were closed as he focused entirely on the music. She closed her eyes as well to listen.
“Hey!”
The shrill shriek jolted her out of her moment of peace. The woman whirled to see a dark-skinned lady aggressively approaching her from across the porch. “What are you doing here? This is private property!”
The shrill shriek jolted her out of her moment of peace. The woman whirled to see a dark-skinned lady aggressively approaching her from across the porch. “What are you doing here? This is private property!”
The woman glanced down at herself and properly noticed her own pale skin tone for the first time. No, she probably did not live here, she realized.
The woman coming towards her, who looked to be in her mid-twenties, wore a medium-length black braid, nowhere near as long as her own crimson hair. She held up her arms defensively and closed her eyes, anticipating an attack of some kind.
Suddenly, heat welled up within her belly like an instant firestorm. It flooded through her veins and into her fingertips, as if ready to be unleashed to defend herself.
The dark woman gasped. “Are you okay?”
The fire inside her retreated momentarily. The crimson-haired woman opened her eyes and examined her arms again. She had already noticed the burn scars on her right arm, but her left arm bore them as well, as did her legs and chest. In fact, she was covered in ugly, leathery splotches from head to toe. She poked at one and recoiled immediately at the pain caused by the merest touchain the merest touch caused.
“What’s going on out here?” a man called out.
The woman turned and froze when she saw the piano player standing just inside the doorway, not two feet from her. He was tall and dark-skinned, like the other woman. His emerald eyes met hers through a pair of square spectacles, and the world slowed for a moment. She felt as entranced by him as by the music he had been playing, even now that the piano was silent.
“Abby,” said the woman softly, more to herself than to the dark-skinned pair. The truth of it suddenly seemed clear to her. She glanced at the glass door, in which she could see her vague reflection. Marring her face on the right side was the largest, ugliest burn mark of them all, stretching across her eye and down her cheek. Yes, this pathetic creature had a name. “My name is Abby.”
The piano player regarded Abby curiously and rubbed his brow, as if he had been beset by a sudden headache.
“Ma’am, were you in a car accident?” the other woman asked, her accusatory tone now replaced with concern. “Or, uh, a boating accident?” she amended, taking in the sand covering Abby’s body and clothes, which were in tatters and barely holding together.
“Dear God, Mahina, she’s bleeding from the head!” the man exclaimed.
Abby touched the left side of her head near her temple absent-mindedly. She had not noticed before; the wound had long since dried. Maybe this injury was why she could not remember anything.
“Um, okay… Abby, right?” said Mahina. “Why don’t we take you to the hospital? My car’s just out front.”
Abby nodded slowly. That seemed reasonable. Taking a step forward, she felt her limbs turn to jelly.
“Kanoa, grab her!” Mahina shrieked.
Kanoa caught her with quick, steady hands, then lifted her off her feet to carry her. Her hair spilled over the edges of his arms and grazed the porch. “Maybe I ought to take you the rest of the way, okay?”
Abby stared at him. Words were coming to her as slowly as her thoughts. Instead of saying anything, she blinked with a long press of her eyelids.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Kanoa.
Relief flooded through Abby as she allowed her muscles to relax. She had nearly passed out by the time they reached the car. Kanoa laid her gently in the back seat, while Mahina took the wheel.
They spoke in low, anxious tones as they passed through the narrow stone tunnel and out onto a conventional, two-way road.
Abby felt oblivion taking hold of her mind. The gentle rumbling of the car rocked her swiftly into that dark embrace.
