Water is sparkling underneath me. All I can feel is the light ripples of the small waves flowing over me. The wet sand below me feels smooth and slips from my grasp easily. The sun goes down and I lie, motionless, on top of the water as it carries me back to the shore slowly.
People under-estimate water. The power it has. Sometimes it creates storms, thrashing you around, and every time you scream your lungs fill with water, your mouth fills with water, and you're tossed upon the shore. But you'd probably be dead by that time. But sometimes it's gentle and calm, and those times are when it's at its best. Water is powerful. Water has no limits. But people underestimate it.
Fishermen go out in boats every day. One sunny morning, five years ago, my father was among them. The water sent a hurl of waves crashing down, splitting the boat in half and leaving pieces of wreckage from it as the heavier parts sank to the ocean floor. Then the water filled his mouth, his lungs, and the next day, his dead body was washed upon the shore, and a chunk of my soul was ripped out and fed to the water. Water feeds on souls. Water has taken many souls. And I don't feel the same way about it anymore.
But still I lie here, un-moving, on the top of the water. The powdery, dry sand touches my arm and I know I've reached the shore. A blanket lies there, and I take it, getting back up to go home.
Tomorrow is the day I could be sentenced to death.