It is probably cold. The early morning hours on the bayside usually are, despite the time of year.

I always loved coming here at dawn—right when the first yellow of the day peeks out over the horizon, gradually erasing the blacks and greys of the night with the illumination of day. That was always my favorite part, sitting in the tall grass with my knees drawn up to my chin and watching the sunlight creep its way up the beach to my toes, ankles, knees,, and face. I always felt like if I sat there in the grass, I would become a fixture of the waking world.

I’ve lived in the shabby cottage three blocks from the bay for my entire life. My idea of fresh air is laced with salt and heavy with moisture. Sand has been an ever-present element in our home, so much so that my mother, a marine biologist with the university, gave up trying to sweep it away, so it’s become a fixture in our home in the same way that I’ve become a fixture in the grass. It exists in all of our cracks and crevices, under our nails, and pushed into the sheets at the foot of our beds. My father, a poet, likes to call it life’s grittiness realized, and I only just started being able to understand when he says things like that.

I’m Cordelia. My name means ‘daughter of the sea’.  My mother really likes when things have significance and I just learned that even my name means something special to her. It makes me feel closer to her and like maybe salt water runs through my veins instead of blood, like maybe I have secret gills somewhere that will pop out when I turn eighteen, or like maybe I was a selkie in a past life. I like to go out to the edge of the water and lay on the beach and dream about shedding my skin and turning into a shining seal and finding my way into the water with an agility and grace that just aren’t possible for humans.

When I turned thirteen, my father convinced my mother to let me come out here in the mornings before school to watch the sunrise. I suspect he knew all along that I had been sneaking out. Since I was eleven, I would rise just before dawn and pull a thick sweatshirt on over my nightgown, put rain boots in my  backpack, and climb out of my first floor bedroom window onto the soft grass below. I used to tip-toe down the gravel driveway barefoot, afraid that if they heard me, they’d wake up and make me go back to bed. Once I made it to the end of the street, I’d either pull my boots on if the ground was damp, or continue barefoot, letting my feet soak up the coolness of the early morning. I’d reach the bay as the skies turned from black to grey and settle myself in the grass just in time for the sun to rise. I always thought I was so stealthy, but my father always knew.

So he convinced my mother and she made me promise to always bring a flashlight and her cell phone so I can always reach her. I thought it was stupid. I thought there would never be a day when I would need her so desperately that I couldn’t just walk the few blocks back home to her, but I brought it anyway.

Even though I had permission o leave, I still climbed out my window every morning. It just felt like part of the ritual. I had to go through the motions to set everything right for the day. And today wasn’t any different, except I left earlier than usual.

My sister made me watch a horror movie last night. You know, the one where an evil masked man terrorizes a girl while she babysits? Halloween, I think. The reboot. I don’t like scary things, but I watched anyway because my sister called me a baby. I cried when he was a little boy and turned to murder like it was the only resort. I cried through the whole thing. I had such bad nightmares that when I woke up three hours before dawn, I just stayed up. I decided to go to the grass early. I felt safe there. I would feel comforted by the sound of the waves meeting the shore, and by the feeling of the sand cradling me.

But when I settled down, something felt different. I didn’t know if it was residual tremors from my nightmares, or if somehow my place had been marred overnight. I hoped it was the former. I laid down on my right side in the tall grass and let the breeze rustle my hair.

And then I heard something. I didn’t want to turn my flashlight on because I was afraid to draw attention to myself, so I stayed very still and closed my eyes and hoped that it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was getting louder and closer to me and I drew my knees up into my chest and held myself like a ball.

And then it was on me. Over me. I could hear its heavy breathing and smell the sour stink of beer and I knew it was a man. I kept my eyes closed. He nudged me with his foot. I kept my eyes closed. He hit me with his fists. I kept my eyes closed. I could feel the waves of fury coming off of him, but I wouldn’t open my eyes to acknowledge him. He picked up a rock and hit my head, harder and harder each time until I could never open my eyes again.

The sun rose on my fourteenth birthday and I was in my spot, but it was all wrong. It was sticky and wrong.

Today is my birthday and I peeked in my mother’s closet yesterday to see my presents. I have a pocket telescope and a moleskin journal waiting for me at home. I have a family waiting for me at home.

The sun rises higher in the sky as the day wears on and he’s standing there, just outside of the grass, with a camera hanging from his blood-spattered neck, resting his hands on his hips, relaxed, watching the water, like he can’t hear the phone ringing incessantly in my backpack, like he can’t hear their shouts for me closing in on my spot.