I trudged along, kicking the heavy, wet sand beneath my feet as I walked impatiently down the somewhat rocky shore of my town’s old lake. I hated it when things got like this. When my thoughts spiraled, the hole in my chest grew twentyfold. Things have been getting harder this school year. I wish I could say what, but I can’t because I don’t know. It was like when I finally got my license last week. I drove down our tiny highway to the closest big city for the day and saw trash blowing in the wind toward the dump. Things are like that trash when eventually the garbage pile gets so big and indistinguishable that it doesn’t even matter what started it or how it grew, because your mind can’t comprehend how it got so big or what any of its components are anymore. You just look at the mess and let it be. How can you do anything about a problem that’s grown out of your control? Eventually, though, it shrinks, then grows and morphs again, and I guess such is life. To live and let live would be a great mindset to possess right about now, but since when were 16-year-old girls known for being rational?

    I temporarily stopped my existential crisis to bend over and pick up a stunning shell for my collection. The ever-growing collection of shells, crystals, and rocks was my prized possession. My dad had started it for me when I was just a little girl. He handed me a beautiful little, smooth crystal and told me it was my birthstone. “Marley, honey, this is Opal. I found it the other day and wanted you to have it.” I wish I had known how significant that moment would end up being. I closed my eyes as I turned over the new shell in my hand. If I tried hard enough, I could still feel his breath on my face and his hands on my shoulders. Too bad that was the last time I ever saw him. He left a while ago: my dad, my best friend; he took everything with him. Only metaphorically, that is. I don’t know why he did it, why he up and left my mom and me.

    My mother and I were never quite as close as the movies made it seem we should be. I had always favored my dad. I had nothing against my mom; we just didn’t have a lot in common past our dirty blonde hair and big light brown eyes. Our looks were all we could bond over. I enjoyed shopping with her and having light-hearted conversations, but she was always a close acquaintance who birthed me rather than my mom. She was merely just a mother. I kept mulling over how messed up things were as I walked home after wasting 45 minutes on my post-school beach walk. All I could think on the short drive home was that maybe I do know why he left. My mom was a shell he couldn’t get to fit in his collection, too shallow and pretty to blend, but not significant enough to be the centerpiece. She was too difficult, and I was just like her these days.

    That night, after I half-heartedly attempted my homework and finished reading the second Twilight book while eating my reheated pizza dinner, I lay in bed, staring at the poster-covered ceiling above me. Using my TV as a soundtrack (it was always turned up just a little too loud to sleep, as was the way I liked it), my racing thoughts took off.

    I reopened my very own  Pandora’s Box. The same strangling thoughts every night. I ran my fingers through my wavy hair and sighed. Every waking moment without a distraction was just another way for the negative thoughts to seep in. I tossed and turned, trying to find a position that was just comfortable enough for me to get a decent night’s sleep. As I turned over, towards my wall of plants and the moonlight beams my window always let in through its sheer, faded white curtains, I saw her again. I still couldn’t figure out who she was. Such a hollow, pale figure of a girl, staring right back into my eyes. If you could even call them that, the light brown muddy pools were too vacant to really see anything. I know I should be afraid, but I wasn’t, and I’m not. She was so familiar to me by now that I barely blinked upon seeing her figure across from me. I simply closed my eyes with a prayer and twisted and turned until my body gave in to exhaustion.

    I woke up the next morning alive, just like every other morning, but it was still no less frustrating. I was waiting for the girl to attack me when my defenses were down. Yet, here I stood. Breathing. I let the Saturday pass without leaving my room for anything other than some coffee and cereal. Another night went by, and then another morning. Sunday. Here it was. I got into bed without changing out of my weekend clothes, did my horizontal acrobatics routine, and waited impatiently to fall asleep.

    If this girl were anything, it was predictable. And whadda you know it? There she was. I stared and stared and stared, hoping the figure would change. Just looking out the window she lived in, my reflection: the only shell too big to fit on my wooden shelves. The only shell my dad didn’t take with him and his collection. The only shell my mother couldn’t turn into another cheap-looking necklace.

    This shell was an ugly shade of faded tan with chipped edges and insides that were too soft. Too washed out… The sea-salted winds slowly scrape away any remains of passion left in the shell’s lungs. The moonlight bathed the shell, the girl, me in an air of desolation. Such a beautiful sight to behold: who doesn’t love the beach at night? Except this wasn’t the beach, and I’m not a pretty shell, and the moon is starting to shift away, taking its light with it. Not even the moon could stand to see me.

    The moon has been my best friend recently. She keeps me company while I sulk, but tonight was different. I was awake when she left. As I watched her light fade, I realized it never fully dissipated. That gave me hope that maybe this shell girl I’ve become can be vibrant again someday.

*Shells was recently submitted, accepted, and published to be in this year’s spring edition of Tornado Alley*