The Visitor
I wake with the early morning sunlight warming my face to see two lumpy stumps are protruding from my lower body.
I sit up on the white sand to study them. They are a mottled pink colour with blue lines running under the skin like the veins in my arms. I stroke the tops of them and find they are smooth but covered with tiny hairs that wave in the breeze.
What did she call them? Legs. There is a large joint in the middle of the legs, which is round and hard. I rap it with my knuckles and it makes a dull thud noise. She also mentioned feet and these must be the smaller lumpy stumps are attached to end of the legs with another set of joints. I experiment with my new legs and feet, moving them to see which way they bend.
I pull up my legs so that I can lean my body against the top of them and rest my head on the large joints. I’m not sure what to do next. I wonder what the ten things on my feet are for. They look like short fingers; I can move them a bit but not as much as my fingers. Are these feet going to be able to hold me upright? It was easier below because there was something to support your weight wherever you were. On the beach, in the air, it seems nothing supports you; in fact, I want to lie flat on the sand and sink deep into it. The breeze weaves in and out of my legs; it tickles and makes the fine blonde hairs stand on end. I love to stroke them.
Time to move. I decide to test one foot first. I move my weight forward onto my knees and sit on the back of my feet. My feet-fingers have disappeared into the wet sand and I can feel the grains between them. It’s strange to feel so much with these lumpy stumps; they’re like upside-down arms. Bending one of my legs, I put my foot on the floor and rest some weight on it. The foot pushes into the sand a little way but then stops. I’m nervous about putting the second foot down and look around the beach for something to lean against. A rock isn’t too far away for me to pull myself to it.
Deep breathe; try again. I repeat the movement and manage to stand on both feet while resting on the rock. I stop a while and look at my surroundings before I try anything more. The sun is still low on the horizon and the beach is deserted. The village is just beyond the edge of the sand and I know he lives in a big house there. I’ve done all of this to see him again, but I don’t have long before I have to go back.
* Claire Snook is a former journalist turned writer living in Bristol and is studying for her MA in Creative Writing at University of Manchester.
