Gulls divebomb the promenade debris as a windblown chip paper clamps her leg. The high tide tries to suck the harbour walls out to sea.
She walks, head down, the question turning in her like an old-fashioned mangle.
Should I stay or should I go?
If she stayed, he’d eventually find her and take revenge for her leaving….on her body, on her psyche. No scars on one, deep cicatrix on the other.
If she moved on, then where to? Would that become her life-pattern?
He’d work out there were only a few seaside towns with happy memories for her.
He’d find her.
The same spark which had driven her to flight, now reacts against being continual prey.
It has to end here.
The wind splays her hair, weaving a nimbus round her head.
She is Medusa.
One hand in her pocket, she slots her fingers into the grip of the gun. The other hand she places on her swollen belly in a gesture of both of affection and defiance.
Mary Farrell is Facilitator of Two Creative Writing Groups on the Irish North Coast. Since returning from France four years ago, she has had poetry and Flash Fiction published, both in book form and online, and has read some of her stories on BBC Radio Ulster and on stage.