What ifs was a waste of time and energy, but my life was filled with them. What if I had never gone to the beach that day?
The mid-day sun was bright on the water and obscured the horizon. The tide was going out, leaving ridges in the sand and more beach exposed with each feeble wave. A cold wind whipped my long hair into my face and caused my eyes to water. I almost wished I had worn a scarf. Almost. I loved the feel, smell and taste of the sea air as much as I loved anything.
I hugged my lightweight blue jacket tighter to my body as I continued my walk and picked up broken pieces of shell and other small debris, picturing in my mind how I would make use of them. I collected beach trash and turned it into something beautiful. This was my life long passion. All the treasures I found on the beach were free and there for the taking, but most of them were thrown back into the sea, worthless to me. Some days I filled my basket but there were others when I went home empty-handed. I felt blessed that I was able to combine my love of the beach with creating objects of art. My friends and family had received more than their share of my gifts.
Lost in creative images I almost didn’t see the woman laying not too far ahead on the sand. This was my private space and it had been violated again. Anger washed over me as I yelled,
“Why are you here? Answer me.”
I felt foolish as I realized the woman was not able to answer. My brain finally registered she was not breathing. I knelt down and saw a large gash on the woman’s bloody cheek. Nausea caused my mouth to fill with saliva as I panicked and started to scream.
“Help me. Somebody, help me.”
I stopped screaming quickly. I knew there was no one on my beach to hear my frantic cry. I fought the fear that welled up inside me as I looked at the woman more closely. She was crumpled in an unnatural position, one arm was caught under her body, and the other one bent above her head. Her thin legs were long and twisted at a crazy angle. She was young, probably in her early 20s. Her blondish hair was shoulder length and strait. Sand had crusted on the side of her face mixing with the dried blood.
“No! Not again!”
My words were swept away in the wind as I sat down abruptly. I couldn’t think or function. Numb with shock, the memory of another day, less than a year ago, over-whelmed me. This was a repeat of a different woman on my beach. She had been dead also.
I remembered it had been an overcast fall day when I noticed a woman propped against a large boulder, as the tidewater swirled around her shoeless feet. At first I had thought she was a beachcomber, and like me, needed a rest. I meant to politely inform her this was a private beach.
I recoiled in shock and horror when I reached her side. She had been badly beaten and was obviously no longer alive. I shook as I pulled the phone from my jacket pocket, and made the call to 911. I had thought I would be safe here when I left the city. By getting involved with the wrong people, I had put myself in jeopardy. I was aware this woman was a warning to me. My safety had been only in my mind.
Now, nine months later, I had regained most of my peace of mind and no longer feared what I might find on the beach, although I avoided the area where the woman had been found. I shuddered, and looked around nervously whenever I thought of that day.
With a last look at this new victim, I trembled violently as I stood and walked back to the tangle of driftwood where I had left my phone. My throat was tight and dry as I once again dialed 911, and I could barely say the words.
“I need help. There’s a dead woman on my beach.”
“It will take the officers about 20 minutes to reach you.” The dispatcher said, “Please stay with the body until they get there.”
That was crazy. Horror crowded my mind at the thought of staying with that poor dead woman. I couldn’t do that, not again.
Nine months before, my privacy had been disrupted when the first woman had been found. Between the police and reporters I had been hounded for answers I didn’t have. Who was she? Where had she come from? Why my beach? The same questions were repeated for weeks and no one had any answers. I was aware the police were not entirely convinced I had told them everything, and with good reason. I had not shared my suspicions and I never would. My life was at stake here. If I revealed all I knew, my death would become a reality, and this woman was a warning to me. The police never found who killed her.
I cried with frustration, as my beach had been spoiled for me once more, no longer a safe retreat in which to find my treasures.
I was determined that my life was not going to be disrupted a second time as the police sought answers I didn’t dare give them. How silly of me. Uppermost in my mind was the question, why my beach again? Was this a second warning? The police would be more suspicious of me this time, I just knew it and tried to keep my panic under control as I wondered how much time I had to get away? Because of the previous incident, the police knew everything about me. It wouldn’t take them long to trace the 911 call to my phone.
I turned and ran from this new nightmare, knowing I had a master plan. I was already prepared for this day. I would just disappear and try to forget. My breath was jagged as I finally got to my car and I trembled badly. It took several tries to get the door unlocked. I waited for calmness to return before I felt safe to drive and I tried to remember what I had to do next. Run! Get away! As I took some deep breaths to steady myself, I started the car and drove carefully away from all I loved.
What if I hadn’t gone to the beach that day . . .?