Sand oozes out of my pores. My hair, the color of sesame oil, smells of seashells. I am on the ocean floor. I cannot remember the moment. I haven’t seen light in days, years, perhaps even minutes. A chain pulls on my skin. I make the motions; engaging my diaphragm to make a scream. My mouth will not open. Water has filled my windpipe. Something is nibbling on my anus. This is how it is done now. I can still see. That is what disturbs me the most, seeing without using my eyes.
A crab eats the ligaments around my breastplate. The breastplate, the top bit, the manubrium, is being eaten too. My memory is eating its tail. The sack of my skin has detached from the sinews of my muscles and is filled with seawater. Fish swim in the hollow shafts of my bones.
I am tangled in a fishing net. There are more grains of sand between the toes of my right foot than my left. Masses of fish press against my body. My limbs fall off as I am dropped on the wooden deck of the fishing boat. Tuna, swordfish and mackerel flop on top of me. Seaweed is in my mouth. The fishermen unravel the anchor chain. They might be able to identify me by the color of my hair.