seashellsIt started with a doorknob.
She turned it and when she stepped outside there was no porch. Suddenly her shoes were gone and she was stepping on seashells. Thousands of them, making up a beach, a beach that stretched and stretched beyond her doorway, her doorknob, her bare, bleeding feet. They were sharp and they hurt to walk on. But she walked. Some stuck in her feet and clung on for dear life, digging in deeper and deeper with each step, until the bottoms of her feet were colored pale pink and dark brown and swirled grays.
When her feet stopped working she got down on her hands and knees, and looked out, looked out to the setting sun, a half-globe sinking into the waiting waves. Her fingers curled around cowries and oysters and snails and crunched them up until they bled out of their shells, broken bits of shell, digging in and cutting into veins. Speckled cowry and smooth oyster and swirling snails dying red, and she thought, My God, this is how the Indians painted.