by Sarah Masters

You’re splayed on the cold beach like a starfish, your hair seaweed tangles, your body still. You don’t know that our father’s pinching your nose and breathing into your small cold mouth. You don’t know that Mum’s crying and I’m on my knees, my nails clawing at sand. I want to hurt. I want this hurt to bring you back to life. I didn’t see I didn’t see I didn’t mean to.

The afternoon was seeping away when we went to collect seawater for the moat. ‘Me too,’ you said.

‘You’re too young, too small. And it’s my moat,’ I said.

I grabbed the bucket but Mum stopped me. ‘Don’t be mean, Kellie. She’s only little.’

‘I know, I said. She’s too little.’

‘Can I, can I?’ Your feet were paddling in the sand like you were already in the sea.

I turned to Mum. ‘But it’s not her sandcastle.’

Dad threw down his book nearly hitting my sandcastle. ‘I’ll smash the bloody thing in if you don’t stop whining.’ His eyes were hard, so I gripped your arm where they couldn’t see, and you bit back a cry but followed me, skip running across the fluttering towels and lotioned bodies, buckets and spades, holes and castles.

The day was cooling and a breeze sprayed grit against our bare legs. Further on the stones were like buttons, like ice chips. You gasped but you didn’t cry so I took your hand and gave you the bucket to hold.

The sea was gull gray. It was flat and it was mean, and I wanted to go home. I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want you here with me and I didn’t want to be your big sister. ‘Here,’ I said as the sea touched our toes, and you scraped the bucket along a thin wave, collecting less than an inch of water. You frowned. ‘You want more?’ I said. ‘Okay.’ We stepped forward and the sea lapped our ankles, our feet numb now. I looked at you, at the wind-raised goosebumps on your sunburned arms. ‘More?’

You laughed in hiccups. ‘More.’ The wind coiled your hair and I thought of starfish. Maybe they were here, under the water.

‘Shall we look?’ I asked.

We took more steps. Water darkened the frills on your swimming costume, turning the pink to coral. You shivered, your hand a tight knot in mine. The sea bumped my thighs and a shelf of sand dropped, freezing ice shrinking my belly, your narrow chest. ‘Enough,’ I said. Was there a shout? Did I hear a shout? I looked up as a great wave hung in the air, rushed towards us, and your hand wasn’t there any longer.

Starfish don’t bleed. They leech saltwater from their pores. Our Dad pushes your small chest over and over, watching your face. I crush the sandcastle with my hands and my knees, the sandcastle I spent all morning building. Please, please, I beg, until finally you heave saltwater and your eyes open.

Photo by Tomas Williams on Unsplash