Girl underwater

Part i: monster.

“Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.” —Sigmund Freud

Drowning. Amidst the foggy surroundings. Sometimes the body of water in which she lies feels infinite, mocking her. It knew, as well as she, that she would never be able to conquer it all. But in those moments, that's all she could have ever wanted. And as if this were not unsettling enough, she shrank. The ordeal in itself caused her heart to race and resulted in a monster whose insomnia haunted anyone brave enough to wander close into her presence. She would hurt them in these moments. She would whisper promises into their ears convincing them to blindly follow her to anything better than here. She’d prey on their fixation of rescuing a soul such as herself. After all, she was drowning forever. Initially, her civilized victim would appear weary. They would think that it was too good to be true, her promises. Their gut would twist at the memory of others like themselves heading a warning of the girl underwater. But it would fade. They were curious. Perhaps, the civilized others did not understand her as he. Maybe, the others simply overlooked the art of her or the way the moonlight danced across her hair. They wanted to feel alive. Oh, how ironic it would be when she would pull them in and consume their soul.

They moved at the speed of sound. So fast that her victim did not even notice his own lungs filling up with water. The faster they moved, the weaker she gripped him. But he would hold on; they always do. Even before the anticipated crash, her victim would grasp onto her pale, weathered skin. He would choke on his tears becoming filled with a passionate fury and demand her to slow down.

“But why?” she would say, “do you appreciate the art of me no longer?”

Even with her teeth gnawing at the flesh of his heart and her fingernails penetrating the essence of his soul, she felt alone once more. She would only wish he would release himself, freeing her of the burden of his hindrance. But he wouldn’t. He was addicted. He was addicted to the way her eyes were hell yet the words she spoke rang with a tone of nirvana, the way her mind wandered among the stars while her body sunk deep into the earth, the way she led with the confidence of a warrior yet never had any intention on arriving in the first place. She just longed for cooperative company all along.

She’d kill him, but beautifully. The type of death that would make others envious. The fiery sex between two intellectual minds. The desire he would feel for her even as she unforgivingly tore open his chest and took the remaining air from his lungs for herself.

Even in the afterlife the civilized victim would boast of the fairytale of it all. How he spent the last moments before his demise teetering on the thin line of power and loss of control with the girl underwater. She was like that, you see. For she only ever felt truly comfortable during chaotic uncertainties. Her sanity was madness, and the unknown was her only feasible rationale for hope. Yet, her victim would be quick to mention how he was the seducer of her. He would only speak of her beauty to those who he presumed would understand, degraded her to those who only sought her for her body, and labeled her as mad to the unwaveringly civilized.

Nonetheless, she heard none. Even at the death of her victims she proceeds indifferently. She wondered in her aftermath of solitude if her victims were ever really alive before she killed them. Some may reflect on their time with another after it is all over, but the girl sought only to romanticize her victims' obsessions of her. She carefully combed through each of their thoughts like a book, consuming each fabricated idolization like candy. Caring not about the betrayal that she had gifted her trusting victims. She was small and she was numb in this large abyss. Satisfying only her impulsive craving and leaving everyone else with nothing. She attributed herself as a goddess and while the body of water seemed so large so did her ego. While the possibilities adhere to no limitations, she remained the queen of the body of water in which she forever drowned. While she was small her hair hung long and dark, appearing as though it was melting from her scalp, the sockets of her eyes popped with web-like purple capillaries, and her bones protruded from the skin which merely draped over them. One from another place who does not know of the girl underwater may mistake her for a corpse. Yet, these were the moments that made her feel most alive, even though she was already dead. But when she shrank, she had forgotten this.

Part ii: apprehensive.

“Except you cannot outrun insanity, any more than you can outrun your own shadow.” ― Alyssa Reyans, Letters from a Bipolar Mother

Achieving the impossible should render so simple for a goddess such as herself. She felt confident in her abilities to utilize the desires of the civilized to adhere to her own hunger. She would venture about the vast abyss she was trapped in searching for this power she had perpetually desired and thought that maybe one day, the affirmation she longed for could become hers. So, the girl would proceed, executing endless endeavors, but, without diligence. She acted in a careless manor, yet endurance seemed to favor her company.

She would move tirelessly when a familiar warning would begin to taunt her through faint shrieks like a ringing in her ears. She was running out of time. Her enemy was the ticking of a clock. So, the girl began moving faster than ever before, compiling the tasks of all her dreams like bricks on her shoulders. A foreign feeling of distress climbed up her neck like a small spider. It sent shivers down her spine. But a goddess so confident should not suffer from such imperfections, she often speculated during these times: who would fancy her if she felt the emotions of those still alive? The girl swallowed her thoughts, compulsively reminding herself of her deserved humiliation if anyone were to know of her shortcomings, if they were to know of her weaknesses. Faster, faster, faster. She could see a clear sky and smell untainted air. She is sure that she’d finally broken the chains of the labyrinth to which she is bound.

But just as she felt as though she had made it out, she’d fall.

Part iii: silent exhibition.

"You are a lonely sailboat, afraid of drowning where no one will see. Yet you forget you have never been alone, not while you have the sea." —Courtney Peppernell

The girl underwater had made a promise to herself to be prepared once again for this; prepared for when time stood still, and the earth spun in slow motion. She never understood why she had always forgotten about this while the water she lie in was vast. She only knew the initial impulse as if she were a caged animal who has broken free, bloodthirsty, and seeking revenge.

The water in which she drowns is no longer vast and interesting, and she is no longer curious and unbothered. The water now feels the size of a fishbowl with no opening at the top, no possibility of escape. Her once small and energetic demeanor mutates. The girl underwater grows abnormally large, and her body feels as though they are bound by chains. Her small bubble of water sits in a room brimming with civilized individuals as if on display for everyone to see. Yet, they all ignore her. And though she feels suffocated by this, she felt more exposed than ever before. Like a meal rat placed in the enclosure of a snake. Her large rat eyes peered out past the glass to freedom. Watching the boys who decided her fate root eagerly as the hungry snake moves closer to her.

Panic devours her. But not the type of panic that makes one run, the kind that puts one to sleep. But when she closes her eyes all the girl saw was the torment of her past. The way the civilized others mocked her for her failures and blamed her for theirs. She saw a young girl so bright and eager who resided in the air, a girl who was once alive. She watched as the others ridiculed her. They would hold her down and release the demon within them into her mouth and she would have no choice but to swallow. Carrying the demons of those who only go underwater when no one was around to see except little girls who breathed air, such as herself. She held these demons deep in her belly. They only bothered to crawl into her mind when she tried to sleep. So, she lies awake.

There is a deep knowledge that one day the girl may die here in this fishbowl. She knew of this fate if she were to stay too long chained. All the ones that spoke of the art of the girl underwater, the ones who secretly swam beside her in the night, the nosy spectators who would stop and stare while she was small, even the ones that felt a duty to once save her from herself, winced away. Bowing their heads low as they pass to avoid eye contact. She felt ugly. But she was unable to see her own reflection. For her hair was full and her skin moist. Her once overbearingly dilated pupils shrunk down to reveal her diamond eyes which were as blue as the tears she cried.

Others far away did sneak a look here and there. She could hear them whispering amongst themselves. They called her a porcelain doll. They would speak of the tragedy she was and declare aloud how porcelain dolls should not be so sad. That she should hide her misery, or she may appear ungrateful, after all, while she is in her bubble, she sits among the living. She sought to justify her sorrows to them exclaiming,

“I am not a porcelain doll; I am a chameleon. I may be among the living within this moment, but I am still drowning. I am still underwater.”

But she was mute, they would not hear the tone of voice in which she spoke. So, they would awkwardly shrug off her cries naming them cinematic and dishonest. Or they would become bitter and gloomy since they had misheard her. They had thought she had blamed them for drowning while in actuality, she only pleaded for a small donation of some comfort towards her.

She turned to someone else. Someone she had seen before: a girl who enjoyed the company of the girl underwater, a friend, a sister. Then another: an elder who was wise and a caretaker among the living. And another: a man, one who has drunk from the deepest depths of her murky waters, where her heart beats unguarded. He had claimed to love her. Her efforts fall tirelessly to no avail.

She began to feel the darkness inside of her swallowing her whole, a feeling she knew too well. She cried out for anyone to help, yet they neglected her. They found the war between her and herself advantageous to their mundane lifestyle. They used it as a warning to the living and her life as a manuscript for the exemplary upbringing of their offspring. They enjoyed the content they already had in possession, a peace she will never know no matter the size of the water she drowned.

They preferred to see her as a mystery. And if they were to help her find a way out, she would no longer be interesting. So, they misunderstood intentionally, or so it seemed. Cursed by a lonely existence that the others wouldn't attempt to understand. It was too inconvenient for them. Even in her past when she breathed air, inching nearer and nearer toward the water, they turned away, abandoning her, until she finally jumped in. And collectively the others allowed it. Which made her feel as though she was destined for this life underwater. Who really betrayed who? For now, the girl spends her days and nights screaming underwater, hoping she had made a mistake and that maybe they really couldn't hear her after all. But the truth is she does not know if she ever truly could fit into civilized life anymore. She often finds herself wondering: who between them is actually civilized?

“My dark days made me stronger. Or maybe I already was strong, and they made me prove it.” —Emery Lord, When We Collided