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Footprints

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He stopped walking, and the car seemed so far away.

He had counted: 2165 footsteps. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-five. It was a nice number, and it felt like cotton candy upon the tongue when he said it out loud. The beach was dark, and the water shone only with the luster of the moon and lights from the distant pier; everything else was so dark. And that frightened him, the black ocean. Sometimes, he dreamed about these waters. He’d find himself unable to swim in a sea of pure nothing, and each desperate flail of his arms and kick of his legs would drag him further and further into oblivion. But with the moon there, the water seemed less menacing and more…happy. Maybe everything looked better in the light. All anyone ever needed was a little brightness to bring out the beauty in that which was once seen as evil.

He continued his walk. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-six. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-seven. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-eight…





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