Day 117 - Beach Inspired

 BEACH INSPIRED 

Prompt - Beach Inspired : What's not to write about the beach?

"Hi Kerry, coming for a drink?"

Darren Brown, school bully, school football captain, school obnoxious prick, standing over us.  I'd finally got some time alone with Kerry MacDougall, lying there on the beach, just the two of us, chatting away and getting along (I thought) just fine.  She was in the year below, and I'd been besotted for the past eighteen months, but this was the first time I'd ever spent an time at all getting her full attention.  And now someone was here to spoil it.

I looked at Kerry, wondering if she was going to say anything.  She looked at Darren, looked at me, looked at Darren.  If anyone was going to reply it had to be me.

"I think Kerry's fine here, we were have a private chat."

"Oooh, a private chat, eh?  Fancy your chances, do you Little Weed."  He'd called me that before.  Kerry sniggered.  I got flustered.  Turned to her, turned back to him, and was met by a faceful of sand.  Eyes, mouth, hair full of grit, stinging, disgusting.  Dogs would shit on this beach.

By the time I could see again it was to realise I was alone.  And there, in the distance, Kerry walking away with Darren's arm over her shoulder.  Sand kicked in the face?  Wasn't that the Charles Atlas cliche?

Three years later.  I was back in town from uni, summer before me, walking the prom, and bumped into Kerry.  Still gorgeous, still unforgotten.  We got talking, we had a drink, we went and sat on the beach.  And talked and talked and just got on (I thought).

"Well, well, if it isn't Little Weed."

I knew the voice without turning.  I knew from the tone what would be coming.  What he didn't know is that I wasn't the same Little Weed he'd known back then.  Three years in the gym and playing squash had turned me into a Triffid.  I got to my feet and faced him.  Them.  Beside Darren stood Michael Brown, his big brother.  

"Fancy a drink Kerry?"

"I've already..."  Kerry began, and I turned to see if she was going to finish.  Found myself being pulled back by the shoulders, a leg behind my calves, and suddenly I was prostrate and winded on the ground.  Sand sprayed over me, getting everywhere, and I lay there blinded, gasping for breath, spitting out grains, writing to try and get myself upright again.

By the time I did I was alone again.  And three figures were walking up to the prom.

Charles bloody Atlas never told that version of the story, did he?