I am afraid to leave my apartment, which is strange because a man died here. He died on the sidewalk below my balcony, actually. What I’ve come to refer to as bloodsand was the only change the next day. No yellow crime tape, only orange-soaked sand swept up to the wooden edging that encapsulates dark brush.

The many hues of the Mediterranean continue to surprise me. The way the water shape-shifts from nearly black to the light blue of the sky to something nearly green. I am afraid of silence, of the things my mind will tell me, of the shaking in my chest. It’s been this way for nearly a year. The antipsychotics are helping.

I am a reliable narrator. A month earlier, you could have questioned me, but I’m stable now.

I take several Xanax and pack a light backpack. I put in an audiobook. One that starts at the After. An unnamed character has fallen to their death. I’ve listened to nearly a hundred domestic thrillers this year and this is the most common way they die, except poisoning. That happens a lot too.

The Sentier du Littoral is rocky with cliffs and constant views of the sea. There are private houses to the left, perched high above me. I like that they cannot own the strip of land along the sea. At least three meters belong to us. The path is dotted with signs, pictures of bodies diving with a red line crossed through.

It’s not until the very last step of the rock-hewn trail that I fall. It’s not very far but I bloody my left knee and twist my right ankle. A group of hikers see me. This is a tourist town with languages and accents fading into a constant garble. I give them a thumbs up. I am okay. A man shows me his cut and bruised knee. His partner shows me her bloody shin. We’re alike.

They want to know if there is anything they can do. That is the problem. There is never much anyone can do. They motion to carry me, but it’s too far. There are too many steps. They are toddlers pushing different-shaped answers into my sorting blocks. The hikers leave.

I lay back against a nearly flat spot in the cliff and spread out my legs. I peel off the compression socks and take off my sun shirt. The mornings and evenings are cold enough for jackets. The middle of the day is warmed by the sun. One woman with curly hair and a proper red bathing suit is tanning, a white cover-up set sprawled beside her.

I take off my shorts and pale-pink thigh savers. My underwear is black. I’m careful as I descend the steps into the water, grabbing hard to the railing, avoiding the one step that is draped in undisturbed algae. The water is cool and I think it is helping my ankle, the saline healing my knee.

I take off my underwear and bra and put my shorts and sunshirt back on. No one is afraid to glimpse my body here. The new hikers don’t even look. I lay back against the cliff and read a novel from a publisher whose covers are all in International Klein Blue.

I don’t read on my balcony anymore. I haven’t opened the blinds since my neighbors visited late at night. He didn’t speak English. His girlfriend told me they’d locked themselves out. She said not to worry, he’d done this before. Climbed into his open window.

I brushed the leg of his slacks while picking up my yellow-eyed cat, too near the french doors that swung inward. I was the last person to say something to him. Pardon.

The girlfriend told me that she shared custody of her toy poodles with her ex-husband. She was from Tennessee too, not far from the town I’d run from to become one of the transient bodies walking the Riviera.

My new husband. She didn’t finish her thought.

The wife went out onto the balcony to check on him. They’d been married for one week now. She said he’d made it into their apartment. But she just hadn’t looked down.

___

Karissa Nevada holds an MFA in creative nonfiction from the University of South Florida. She is currently working on a thriller.

Photograph by Sherry Shahan