With trembling fingers I pocket the phone, hoping they’ll find me quickly.
The body lies half-covered by seaweed, but I can still hear the relentless drone of insects meandering through what is left of the head. I struggle to control my heaving stomach.
The legs are splayed awkwardly, one red shoe with a broken heel dangling drunkenly from an upturned foot. She must have tried to escape.
The stillness of the dawn is broken by distant sirens and I sigh, relieved.
Closer though, sand begins to whisper, seagrass rustles irritably in protest.
And behind me, ragged breathing…
Posting this as we cruise between locks, hoping the mobile connection will hold on as we disappear further into the French countryside. Friday Fictioneers time again, and thanks to Rochelle once more.