4 of 17

Write now Article Tools

If a dead body could talk, this here is what it would tell you. I know, I know. I don't understand either how I am even able to think these thoughts. But you are reading them, so that's proof in my book. Make no mistake about it, I'm as dead as that small cold piece of drift wood that got trapped between my body and the dry beach and keeps scraping up against my ribs. I can't feel it, but for whatever reason it's aggravating me.

I wondered about this predicament myself. Maybe I'm just knocked out or knocked silly. Maybe I'm dreaming, or I'm half drowned and somewhat confused. But no, the cop bent over me and pulled my eyelid back and it slapped shut like a screen door with a worn out little arm thingy. Wham! I don't know if I could hear him or merely sense him, but he was telling somebody back over his left shoulder that I was as dead as a doornail, that it was pretty damn nasty.

It hadn't been all that long, though I can't rightly say I'm able to be a good judge of time in my present condition. Heck, for all I know it might have been three weeks, but for whatever reason it felt like about three or four hours. Somebody found me. It sounded like a youngster, maybe a teenager. He didn't even get close enough to me for me to get sight of them but I could hear him hollering back to call the ambulance. I guess he suspects I drowned. Maybe I wish i had drowned, because the hell I went through was probably a bunch worse.

It probably took a good seven or eight minutes from my first realization that my entire life was in jeopardy to the time I sucked in that last little bit of breath and blood and died. 58 years of life just gone. 58 summer times. You think that summers are endless until you are lying there trying to get air in around all the blood and you start thinking, humph, 58 summer times, and I don't recall that many other than a few with some silly highlighted moments (and don't you worry none, I'm going to tell you in detail about those ones I remember cause I don't have anything better to do). 58 years of summers, and school, and buddies, and girlfriends. 58 years of crushes, heartbreak, pain, depression. 58 years of passion and pride. 58 years of leading up to this.

I was looking up toward the surf and awaiting the time that I was going to meet her. I sort of wanted to keep looking back to see what she would look like, but half too wanted to stare out at the waves and just have her arrive and surprise me. It was about the time she should have been there when I last looked back but she won't nowhere to be seen. It wasn't really like her. Every time we fired up our computers and started dropping silly notes to each other, she was always right on time.

Last I looked back it was a fella walking along, alone. I remember thinking he was scraggly even by my standards. His curly ash brown hair was matted from not having been washed. He wore a five o'clock shadow, or to be more precise, about an eight o'clock shadow. His shirt buttoned up the front and he had screwed up and not lined the button up with the hole. Ain't it something how in the last moment of life you can recall such silly details. Hell, I wish I had it in me to tell the police all this but for now it's just between me and you.

Learn more about this author, Jonathan Sadler.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

Add your voice

Know something about Novel excerpts: Murder at the beach?
We want to hear your view. Write now!