Who are you, Cadette? There is blood on your hands.

It is thick and red- sticky between her fingers, caught under her nails. She does not remember where it came from, and it is not hers, for her body only aches in ways she is familiar with. It oozes to her wrists, then down to her elbows, where it hangs until enough gathers that a droplet slips to the stained sand. The ground is pink beneath her feet, a puddle absorbed by the thousands of grains her toes wiggle in.

The sands are her memories. There are millions of them from her seventy-five years of living, all buried on top of each other into huge mounds. They form lengthy beaches, each second a single grain. Immeasurable numbers lay beneath the waves lapping against shore. But she cannot see past the first layer- no matter how deeply she digs, she will never uncover the deepest particles of sand. No matter how far she swims, she will never catch a glimpse of the bottom of the depths of the ocean. Perhaps in the shallows, she'll be able to hold her breath for a few seconds. But never forever- the sand will always slip from her grasp once more, marooned beneath murky waves.

And despite that sunny days are common, with clear cerulean waters where she can see straight to the memories out of reach, sometimes, the waves are so opaque she doesn't know she's even missing such a vast collection. She doesn't know she's missing part of who she is.

The old woman walks. Lumbering from the relative shade of the shack's run-down roof, she drags her feet in the sand. Yellow specks curl around her toes- a reminder that even though she is not submerged as others are, the memories are still there, lurking in the background. Sunlight creeps into the sky from the charred jungle in the distance, tree trunks mangled and singed from the flames, now extinguished. She cannot remember ever traveling there, but it does not look friendly in the slightest, and so she plods along further. Her steps are heavy, weighted.

She searches; for what, she does not know. Perspiration slicks her forehead with moisture, and she opens and closes her palms, forming fists and then letting go in an effort to get the stickiness of the blood off of her. The air is silent, the world is still. She would like to think it is a peaceful silence, but a wariness within her mind puts her on edge.

Who are you, Cadette? What are you doing here?

The ocean ahead is an opportunity to clean her hands, and she quickens her stride, set on a destination. She tromps through the sand, ignoring the memories below. They have no significance to her. She doesn't know they're even hers.

She leans; her back groans, yet she ignores it. Pain has become perpetual. The tips of her fingers meet the cool touch of the sea, and the coat of scarlet fades away, tinting the tide as it withdraws itself. Eyes following the trail of blood out until the distinct red mixes thoroughly with blue, she takes another step. Another wave washes up against the shore; first, her fingers sink into the liquid, then it wets her heel. The sun's heat beating passionately down on her, it is a brief second of relief before the water trickles away once more, gushing against her dangling fingers as it withdraws.

The waves are her consciousness- coming in for a brief moment, then leaving just as suddenly. With the touch of water, memories clump together, forming thicker, heavier sand; untouched areas are light and airy, free-floating. She can only grasp so many handfuls to make sense of with the limited time a tide offers.

Too often, her progress is lost. Too often, the length of an altered tide exposes sand to sun, drying faster than she could ever wet. After a high always comes a low. Whether she knows it or not, she has reached the low- the low where great lengths of sand are exposed, but cannot find their way to her mind.

She wades deeper. The water flushes around her knees as it comes in, hugs her ankles as it goes out. If there is danger lurking, she doesn't remember. Perhaps she is oblivious. Perhaps she simply needs a moment for her nerves to rest, to escape the anxiety of constantly being on edge. Perhaps she subconsciously called for a blank state. The world is silent; it is her oasis.

Her waist sinks below water level- by now, the waves are minuscule, barely noticeable in their constant bobbing. When she is deep enough, she floats. In water, her tightened muscles relax, easing her onto her back as she lazily revolves. The sky is blue above her, hardly littered with a single cloud. Her skin tingles, water securing her limbs in a gentle embrace as she paddles slightly.

She closes her eyes, soaking up sun and sea.

Who are you, Cadette? You are all alone.

Time does not pass the same way it had once. She counts the time between seconds, does not know how long it takes before she gently flips herself back over. The silhouette of a land mass rests in the distance, and she kicks toward it with slow strokes; it is not the same island, but possesses similar sand, and the same sun still beats down upon it. She hauls herself from the water, then lays upon the heated beach, feeling grains of sand cling to her soaked arms and legs.

Memories cling to her, as well. She just cannot see them like the rest of the world does. They are the particles too small for her eyes to distinguish, the waves too soft-hearted to crash against the shore like the others.

Again, she closes her eyes.

"Cadette?"

It is a soft call- hesitant. Her name lingering in the air, she darts upward, startled. Turning her head to face the speaker, her curiosity overpowers all else. Eyes catching on a figure standing a comfortable distance away, immersed by the lapping waves up to his chest, she squints for a moment at the concerned expression of a boy she knows, she knows, she knows.

A name comes to her. Constantine.

Perhaps it is the beginning of high tide's return; perhaps it is simply the remnants of a memory that just didn't want to budge when the others fled.

He stares at her in amazement; she'd hardly realized she'd spoken the word out loud. "You remember me, Cadette?"

She asks why she wouldn't remember him, despite that she can't conjure up a single moment where she's interacted with him before. Then again, she can't think of anything... her life began in the shack, with blood on her hands, and there was nothing before. She can feel the age in her creaking bones, her aching muscles, how heavily her head sits inside her skull, but there isn't a lifetime to accompany them.

His face softens. "You're sick, Cadette. But it's okay- just come in the water and you'll be alright again." He takes a step closer to her, reaching out with a pruned hand.

"I feel fine." Even as the words leave her mouth, doubts begin to prick the edges of her relaxed state. The sand feels itchy on her exposed skin.

"I know you do. But you have to trust me, Cadette. If you come in the water, you'll be free of all the pain. I'll be here with you the whole time."

All she has is a name- a name and two silver eyes staring at her with open arms.

Who are you, Constantine? You ask for a stranger's trust.

But is that such a ridiculous thing to ask? She's not a stranger- his name had come to her in an instant. Whether he was friend or foe, she does not know, but she has been alone. She does not know what her purpose on the island is. She cannot shake the feeling of the stickiness of the blood on her hands.

"I know it's not clear right now, Cadette, but I have the answers. Just trust me."

Slowly, she pushes herself to her feet, wobbling slightly. "That's it," Constantine coaxes. His smile is contagious. Stepping toward the water, she again feels it pooling beneath her, then retreating into the ocean. Lucidity, at high tide, would have told her to retreat, as well. But the tide is low, and the sands of her memories slip away as soon as they meet the ocean, cleansing her until nothing remains but a name. Her own palm connects with a withered, wrinkled one, and he pulls her under. She peels her eyes open, surrounded by water, to see a creature, a far cry from Constantine. For a moment, horror consumes her, but it fades quickly. She has little beyond names.

And because of that, even if she dies, she'll have had nothing to live for.

Her lungs fill with a sharp inhalation of water.

Who are you, Cadette?

You are a shell of a being.