When the Ghost Crabs Turn Red
First published online at Jawbreaker Zine, December 2019
cw: implied sexual assault
We go barefoot together. As all the families walk back over the sandbank and the sun’s swooning down, we stumble further out. Full of blue cheese and pink gin, we’re excited for the island we’ve heard waits beyond. We sip from our half-empty bottles and laugh at the fuzzy shapes of each other. He is beautiful in this half-light.
He stops, tugs my arm and we crash into the sand. Lights from the distant coastline flicker and fade. Fireworks are going off somewhere on the mainland, although we can’t hear them from here. He lifts my skirt; runs his hands down my sternum. I sigh. He snickers.
“We shouldn’t,” I breathe. “Could be other…”
“There’s no one,” he grunts, fidgeting with my blouse, pulling me closer.
“No, I don’t think it’s a good- good- ”
“Just relax.” Then I hear something, a sucking sound from beneath us.
“What’s that? D’you hear it?”
“What?” he says. “Can’t hear anything. Don’t tell me now you’re getting frigid on me?” He fails to unhook my bra, reaches for his bottle. Holds it to his mouth and sculls what’s left.
Air puckers like tiny lips in the shallows all around us, kissing, hissing, whistling. Holes open at our hands and feet. Between my splayed fingers, spread legs. He jerks the bottle away from his face, swearing under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” I say, reaching for him.
“Shut up. Ow. Shit. Fuck. Shut the fuck up.” I hear a faint scuttling on glass like wind chimes singing in the breeze.
What looks like a ghost crab crawls out of the bottle top, claws over the lip and falls below. He hurls the empty bottle into the ocean. It floats on the tide.
He starts itching at his naked chest, swearing, scratching at the skin. A strange gurgling, clicking noise burbles up from deep within him.
“Fufrck. Shicrt. Crkknt.” If the ocean floor could speak, I imagine it might sound something like this. I dig my fingers into the wet sand. Ghost crabs erupt from his mouth, pouring onto me. In the dim light, I see they are not yellow but deep red. They spew out, pincering at the air, beady black eyes darting at both of us.
Staring at the crabs, I listen to their clicking claws. Feel their legs crawl over my sunburnt skin, pinching at my tender chest and thighs. Black water rises up.
“Herflp. Plreffse! Drrckn’t. Lkrve!” His hands stretch out for me, drizzled with blood. I kick him away, kick at the crabs, kick up the sand, tumble to my feet.
Don’t look back until I’m on dry land again and the sand is only a residue between my toes. Water curls in upon itself, lapping over and under in backwash. I no longer see the bank where he stood. Any distant island is gone. The crabs have vanished and so has he. I don’t know what to think or do, who to talk to or where to even begin telling.
Nobody’ll listen to me. Nobody will believe me.
Art courtesy of @brontemark
