Beach

The hissing sound of the spray of the sea against the rocks is strangely soothing, the warm salty stench of fish wafting through my window is too. I hate this place. If it weren't for the sounds and the smells, I would have left years ago. At least I think I would have. Now I can't leave this place. I feel some kind of tether keeping me tied down, anchored. The sea sways back, forth, back, forth, back, forth, the rhythm is hypnotic. The swelling tide does not swell enough to make this terrible house disappear into the water. I wish it would. I hate this place. The floor is never clean of sand, I gave up sweeping it years ago, it was pointless. Now the floor looks like the beach outside. The salt has dried out the wood and it is drafty at night. Why can't the sea take this place away from me? I have always loved the sea, I suppose that must have been why I moved into this terrible place. I can't remember now. My memory is shot, I lost it too, years ago. So many years ago. I haven't seen anyone come to this beach in so long, I wonder if anyone is left. After the sky flashed bright all those years ago, I have seen no one. Not even me.