Filed To Story: The Saltwater Curse Book PDF Free
“I’m bored,” I declare.
He ignores me.
I snap at him, and then I dive down to the sand to sniff around for treasure before going back up.
Exploring the sea is no fun when we’ve been in the same place all morning.
His human’s seven legs—I can’t count—dangle over the edge of a board, and my ears perk up, my mouth watering. I’ve hunted her eighty-five times in the past twenty-one days. I deserve a reward after Ordus brought only nine coconuts back to the lair. Her nice, thick thigh bone will be good.
I swim up to Ordus. “Can I eat her?”
“No.”
I lick my lips. “A nibble? Please.”
“No,” he growls, showing me his teeth.
Ugh.
“Okay.”
I wait for her to start flapping her arms in the water, and then I fly through a wave like I do back at the island. Eventually, her three legs come back into the water.
“What about now?” I ask.
Ordus’ arm snaps out, and I dart away before he can catch me. My tail moves fast as a light noon—or light thing? Or…lighter? What did I hear the human song say?
My head shakes. It doesn’t matter.
I am a lone creature. I do not need Ordus. If I want to eat a?—
Legs.
I sniff the water.
Legs that don’t belong to Ordus’ female. I scrunch my nose. Legs of a smelly human.
My tail slumps. A male with dirty feet. I suppose I must find another meal.
The creature moves to lie flat on his board to give me a clear view of the coconut painted on the bottom of his toy.
I’ve found lunch.Cindi
The morning sun kisses every inch of my exposed skin and warms me to my core. The mildew and mist that hung in the air and on the grass is long gone, but everything is always crisp out here. I think I could live out here—in the ocean, where no one can find me. Maybe a secluded island with a house right along the beach where the water is at my fingertips, where the freshness of the salty breeze fills my lungs.
Most of all, pain doesn’t exist out here. My wrist isn’t aching. My fingers aren’t on fire. The slight throb in my neck is gone.
The waves gently rock me and my surfboard side to side, lulling me like I’m being swung in a cradle. With each sway, a little bit of my anxiety trickles into the water. Not enough to make me forget about last night’s panic attack or the alarm tripped in the late hours of the morning, but just enough for me to unclench my jaw and relax my shoulders.
Sorrow twists in my stomach at the memory of weekends spent with my father—his laughter echoing over the waves, his hands steady as he helped me onto a surfboard for the first time.
I’d twisted my ankle that day, but he just grinned, nudging me back up, saying, “No pain, no gain.” Back then, I believed him.
Every Sunday, we’d be up at the ass crack of dawn. We either went surfing or hopped on a Harley, riding to some quiet place to reconnect with nature. It was our favorite thing in the world.
At least, that’s how it was before I met Tommy.
Dad ate healthy and was the fittest man on Earth—I thought he was going to live forever. He was still in his fifties and went through life acting like he was going to survive well into his nineties. But in the end, carbon monoxide poisoning got to him first, something entirely avoidable.
Tears sting my eyes. I know it’s not rational; the what-ifs and had-Is might change the outcome of that weekend. But it feels like his death could be my fault. If I saw through Tommy sooner, if I broke up with him and didn’t engage in the argument about my “prioritizing Dad over him,” Dad would never have died. I would’ve seen him that weekend. He would still be alive, and I wouldn’t be running from ghosts and men with guns. If I had just listened to Dad’s warning, none of this would’ve happened.
This morning when I checked the feed, all I could spot was a dog—or at least, I think it was a dog. The dark blob looked about the same size as a midsized one, and it trotted around the same way a canine would. It rubbed itself along my cabin, took pee breaks on the trees and posts, and pawed at the back door.
Whatever it was, it ate all the kibble I left out for the stray animals in the area. Either way, it’s time for me to move on. I’ve already been here too long.
“Sialan,” Deedee curses in Indonesian—actually, my vocabulary also extends to swear words. “I’m pruning like a bitch.”
I peel my eyes open to glance at Deedee as she grimaces at her hands before resuming her fidgeting with the bracelet, staring out at the horizon.
I snort. She’s been out here for almost an hour and half. I’ve already doubled that, because I got out here well before she did. I crane my neck back to check if Nat is still sunbathing on the shore—sleeping off a hangover, apparently—then scan the streets to make sure no one has decided to join us at our secret spot.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I survey the streets one more time to be safe. I can’t hear anyone drive further out than this.
My focus returns to Deedee, the feeling of being watched as strong as it always is. She has an unnatural sort of beauty, the kind where you look twice because her deep golden tanned skin glows without a drop of makeup, and she seems to wash her shiny hair with the Elixir of Life.
Her long, black braid is partially undone. Chunks of hair stick out at odd ends. Dark strands frame her face and catch the light every time she moves. Her plait reaches the tattoo on her ribs—it’s the same matching one I have on my upper back.
The woman is well above her thirties—or so she claims—but she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five. The one time I asked for her skincare routine, she laughed and said, “The blood of virgin men and Neutrogena.” It wasn’t very helpful, but I figured I’d need more than an oil cleanser to wash away signs of four years’ worth of trauma.
“I don’t want to look at the state of my hands.” I chuckle, cutting myself off at the frown she casts toward the open sea. Her fingers stall on the golden bracelet. “You good?”
She makes a noncommittal noise. “Just memories. You know how it is.” She offers me a weak, placating smile.
Don’t I know it?
“Want to talk about it?” Sometimes, it’s nice to get things off my chest when the world feels too much. I’ve confided in Deedee before—brief stuff, mostly, but she has a very generalized idea of the type of demons I’ve got under my bed.
She hasn’t told me much either, beyond losing her family and changing her name to feel like she’s taking back control of her life.
My stomach sours as I watch the corners of her eyes crinkle with pain and a haunted look passes over her. Seeing her like this makes me feel hopeless. She lost her sister decades ago, and she still hasn’t gotten over her grief.
I doubt I’ll ever stop feeling like I’m being torn in two whenever I think about Dad.
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