2,342 words - teen fantasy
My legs break.
I scream, the sound garbled, the last of my air scattering in bubbles.
Slices of pain crack down my thighs and calves.
Water under, above. In my ears, in my hair, in my mouth.
I thrash.
My fingers throb.
My neck sears and I clutch my throat. Air. I need air.
My legs bump against each other and stick, like they're coated in honey. I try to pull them apart, but the stickiness on them turns to wet cement and hardens, locking them together.
And still, I can't reach the surface. Can't think. Can't swim.
I claw at the sunlight out of reach, shimmering through the water.
Too far, too deep.
My feet spasm.
I am dying.
My lungs are full and heavy, but not with oxygen.
My whole body is writhing and twisting.
The water burns my skin.
My legs begin to bend. Unnatural. Not at the knees. In the middle of my thighs. At the bottom of my calves. My bones feel shattered.
I need air. I clamp my mouth shut. I will not drown. I will not drown.
I am drowning.
My legs twist, all bends and breaks, like my legs have become spines, my knees no longer an anomaly.
My lungs scream and scream, and pull and pull.
My neck flares with pain and I feel cuts slice through my skin under my fingers.
And from the center of my lungs, a sensation knives through me, down each limb, into each finger and toe, making me jerk.
And then I drop.
Limp, weighed down, broken.
I thump against the sandy sea floor, limbs sprawling, legs curled sideways, stuck together. For a moment, the sensation washes over me in waves, thrumming inside me, still pain but not quite so exquisite. I don't want to surrender. I don't want to drown.
But every cell in my body feels so far away and slow, like the sensation is weight and maybe nothing more. I feel myself fading into it, and then it settles on me like silt.
The pain fades, and I blink, waking from it, like the pain was a drug.
I exhale.
Inhale.
Water.
I am still underwater.
Exhale.
Water rushes down and around my neck. I put my hands up and feel the slits there, just under the back of my jaw.
Inhale.
I am underwater. I am breathing.
I am breathing underwater.
Exhale.
I have gills.
Inhale.
I have gills.
Exhale.
Why do I have gills?
And then I see my fingers. Light from above is swirling off them, twisting, reflecting the sea's mood above me. And the light makes me look pale.
But my fingers are not just pale. They are webbed.
They are sticky and when I try to shake off the ribbons that connect finger to finger, they are pliable but unyielding. They catch the water. I shake harder, breathe faster.
I must already be dead.
In between worlds.
Asleep.
I must be going crazy.
The lack of air is making me see things before I die.
I've spent too long obsessing over sea life, and now my brain is mixing it with reality. I am experiencing brain damage as I go longer and longer without air.
I inhale deep again. Inhale water.
Exhale it through my gills.
And see my legs.
I scoot back, trying to get away from them, but of course they come with me.
They are still slimy, sand griming them. They are stuck together, the slime hardening, but bendable. And they are broken. They must be broken.
Legs don't bend like that.
Fish bend like that. Eels bend like that. Not legs.
They are twisted and curved, like they were mangled and dropped. But there is no pain left in them.
I must be dying.
And my feet. My feet are flat, toes splayed. They too are slimy. My toes webbed like my hands. And they too are broken, toe joints separated from each other, toes long and inhuman. As I watch, the slime is building itself around my toes, collecting on them and hardening. I flick my feet and the slime slides down them further, hardening at the tips like icicles or stalactites dripping and growing. The slime is so repulsive that I can't look away. This is my body. And this is what it looks like in this unstable moment.
I no longer know what is reality and what is imagination or hallucination.
All I know is, I have a tail. A fish tail. With fins forming off my feet. I kick my legs again, feeling dizzy at the way they ripple, like the bones in my legs were sectioned into vertebra.
I have gills. I have webbed fingers. I have a tail.
I pass out.
That first breath of air feels insubstantial. My lungs lift inside me, expecting weight to fill them, and I bob in the water. I can breathe.
Black night. I make out the shore in the distance and swim for it, my legs or tail feeling awkward and unsure. I don't want to bend my legs, don't want to feel how they move. But I can't swim without them.
When I crawl onto the beach, I realize I am naked and shivering. Shredded pieces of my swimsuit cling to my shoulders. I think the slime that coats my legs ate away at the fabric. But I don't know. I don't know anything.
I don't want to know anything. I want to pass out again.
I lay with my cheek pressed to the sand, waves washing over me, and breathe. Normal breaths. I wonder if I am still alive, or if this is after life and it only feels the same but isn't.
Then I look around, and see a beach house in front of me. Nathan's family's house. Three abandoned towels are sitting out. I drag myself to the biggest one, bleached white, and try to wrap it around me because even if this is the afterlife, I still appreciate clothing. But my legs are stuck to each other making standing impossible, so I have to roll myself up in the towel like a burrito, leaving my arms out to adjust me.
Then I lay there and breathe, and touch my neck with my strange hands. The gills are still there, but closed now, flat against my neck. Only small little ridges show where they are.
"Help," I say, and my voice rasps, my throat coated in salt. I cough and swallow. "Help. Help me!" My voice is hoarse.
I flip onto my stomach and try to crawl toward my house, but with my legs stuck together, and the towel dragging in the sand, my arms aren't strong enough.
"Help!" I say again, louder
The porch light flips on. The screen door squeaks open.
And I wish I hadn't said anything, because what will Nathan's parents say when they see me? Will they see me? Maybe I exist in an alternate dimension. Maybe I am dead and only a ghost.
Bare feet on the wooden steps.
"Cindy? Oh my gosh! Cindy!" Nathan, my boyfriend, runs down the beach toward me, and I wait for him to realize. He squints at me.
"Don't panic," I say, even though I haven't done much else. "I think..." My voice is scratchy. "I think I'm evolving into an aquatic animal. But I also think I might just be hallucinating." I kick my legs to make my point, and the hardened slime trailing off my toes breaks off. Encouraged that the transformation might not be permanent, I kick my legs harder and wiggle them against each other, trying to force them apart.
Nathan is still standing, staring at me.
I sit up and touch my legs for the first time since any of this began. They are dry and scaly. The slime flakes off in my hands. Rubbing at my legs, big chunks of it break off and disintegrate into the sand. When I pull my legs in opposite directions, there is a crackling noise and then they break apart from each other.
My heart flies up in my chest, thinking I've just broken off a piece of my leg, but no. My legs are all there, separate. They ache like I've exercised them too hard and pulled a muscle. I can feel the bones inside groaning and pulling together. I sit back on my hands, the towel still tucked tight around me, and wiggle my toes. Even my feet are looking more normal. More human. I hold up one hand, and then rub between my fingers with my other hand. The webbing comes off, dry and dusty.
I breathe in, and let my breath out in a whoosh.
I am human. I am still human.
I don't know what that was that happened in the water. I don't know if I lost consciousness and imagined it all, hallucinated it as I fought for air.
I don't know, and I don't want to know. I shift a leg and it bends at the knee, all proper and straight. I collapse back on the sand.
"Cindy?" Nathan asks.
I'd forgotten about him.
"It's okay," I say. "It's going to be alright. It was nothing. Just a little sea slime that got on me while I was swimming."
"Here," he says, crouching down to put an arm under my shoulder and help me to my feet.
I feel unsteady on my legs, like Ariel the first time on land. But no. Nothing like that. I've always been human. Always will be.
"You were gone for so long. We tried to find you. What happened to your swimsuit?"
"I think I went crazy," I say. "I think I turned into a mermaid."
The next morning, I sit on the wooden steps of my own family's beach house and look at the ocean, sparkling in the sunshine. Nathan brings me a bowl of cornflakes, but I'm not hungry. I didn't sleep.
"You feel better this morning?" he asks, sitting down next to me. "You sounded pretty freaked out last night."
His family's house is down the beach, just far enough to make out.
"I don't know," I say. Then I wish I didn't, because it makes me feel crazy and desperate, hearing myself. I take a bite of cornflakes and make myself chew.
"You want to talk about it?" Nathan asks.
I don't answer, because shaking my head makes it seem like a big deal, but I can't say anything. He'll think I'm insane.
"It was nothing," I say. "I was snorkeling and got too far out. A current caught me and pulled me under. I thought I was going to drown."
"That sounds pretty scary," he says. "How'd you make it out?"
I shrug. "I swam," I say.
"Diagonal to the rip tide, like they tell us?" he asked.
"Yeah, I guess. That's the only way to get out, right? I got lucky."
"Man. That's freaky stuff. You should take a buddy next time."
"Yeah. I guess so. But it turned out alright." I sip my cornflake milk and hand the bowl back to him, still full, because my mind had been working this whole time without telling me, only alerting me now that it's made a decision.
"I'd better get some rest," I say. "I'm pretty tired from yesterday."
"Okay. Good idea," Nathan says. "Guess you're not up for surfing today?"
"Maybe not. Sorry. Tomorrow though."
"For sure. Get some rest. I don't want you to drown."
I smile and stand. "See you later."
When he's gone, I get the kayak out of the garage and drag it out to the water with a paddle and a life vest. I push out into the water and climb in at the last second, my toes pushing off the sand. I row hard and fast, still tired but awake with anticipation.
When I get far enough that the shore can't easily make me out, I take off the life vest, clip it to the oar, and lock the oar into place on the side of the kayak.
Then I strip to my underwear. I'd really like to have clothes to put back on after this is over.
I stand, wobbling in the boat, arms outstretched, and eye the water. Then I jump.
The water enfolds me, wraps around me and makes my neck tingle.
I open my eyes.
My mouth is shut tight, air trapped in my lungs, turning me into a bubble.
The water is so blue and clear, light making patterns, caught in the folds of H2O molecules. I look over at the little boat and I hold my hands up to examine them. They are just hands.
I swim up a little and touch the boat, one hand on the side, head still underwater.
I try to open my mouth, but my brain overrides me, instinct kicking in.
My mouth is sealed shut, locking in the air I need to live. The air my brain thinks I need to live. I tell my brain that it came up with this idea in the first place. That if it doesn't work, I can lift my head out of the water in a second. That I won't drown. But my brain is having none of it.
Finally I come up for air and climb into the boat, dripping and cold. I wrap my arms around my legs.
I can't do this. What if it works? What if it doesn't work? What if it's irreversible? What if it was a one time thing? What if I'm crazy?
But I have to know. I have to know or the unknown will suffocate me, drown me in the undiscovered. This is me. This is my body. My life.
I have to know.
Gritting my teeth, I slide over the edge of the boat again, sinking underwater.
I close my eyes, shut down my brain. Drown out everything but the lull of the water against my skin, rocking me, swaying with the tide.
I breathe in.
reading recommendation: The Sometimes Mermaid by Lauren DeStefano
My legs break.
I scream, the sound garbled, the last of my air scattering in bubbles.
Slices of pain crack down my thighs and calves.
Water under, above. In my ears, in my hair, in my mouth.
I thrash.
My fingers throb.
My neck sears and I clutch my throat. Air. I need air.
My legs bump against each other and stick, like they're coated in honey. I try to pull them apart, but the stickiness on them turns to wet cement and hardens, locking them together.
And still, I can't reach the surface. Can't think. Can't swim.
I claw at the sunlight out of reach, shimmering through the water.
Too far, too deep.
My feet spasm.
I am dying.
My lungs are full and heavy, but not with oxygen.
My whole body is writhing and twisting.
The water burns my skin.
My legs begin to bend. Unnatural. Not at the knees. In the middle of my thighs. At the bottom of my calves. My bones feel shattered.
I need air. I clamp my mouth shut. I will not drown. I will not drown.
I am drowning.
My legs twist, all bends and breaks, like my legs have become spines, my knees no longer an anomaly.
My lungs scream and scream, and pull and pull.
My neck flares with pain and I feel cuts slice through my skin under my fingers.
And from the center of my lungs, a sensation knives through me, down each limb, into each finger and toe, making me jerk.
And then I drop.
Limp, weighed down, broken.
I thump against the sandy sea floor, limbs sprawling, legs curled sideways, stuck together. For a moment, the sensation washes over me in waves, thrumming inside me, still pain but not quite so exquisite. I don't want to surrender. I don't want to drown.
But every cell in my body feels so far away and slow, like the sensation is weight and maybe nothing more. I feel myself fading into it, and then it settles on me like silt.
The pain fades, and I blink, waking from it, like the pain was a drug.
I exhale.
Inhale.
Water.
I am still underwater.
Exhale.
Water rushes down and around my neck. I put my hands up and feel the slits there, just under the back of my jaw.
Inhale.
I am underwater. I am breathing.
I am breathing underwater.
Exhale.
I have gills.
Inhale.
I have gills.
Exhale.
Why do I have gills?
And then I see my fingers. Light from above is swirling off them, twisting, reflecting the sea's mood above me. And the light makes me look pale.
But my fingers are not just pale. They are webbed.
They are sticky and when I try to shake off the ribbons that connect finger to finger, they are pliable but unyielding. They catch the water. I shake harder, breathe faster.
I must already be dead.
In between worlds.
Asleep.
I must be going crazy.
The lack of air is making me see things before I die.
I've spent too long obsessing over sea life, and now my brain is mixing it with reality. I am experiencing brain damage as I go longer and longer without air.
I inhale deep again. Inhale water.
Exhale it through my gills.
And see my legs.
I scoot back, trying to get away from them, but of course they come with me.
They are still slimy, sand griming them. They are stuck together, the slime hardening, but bendable. And they are broken. They must be broken.
Legs don't bend like that.
Fish bend like that. Eels bend like that. Not legs.
They are twisted and curved, like they were mangled and dropped. But there is no pain left in them.
I must be dying.
And my feet. My feet are flat, toes splayed. They too are slimy. My toes webbed like my hands. And they too are broken, toe joints separated from each other, toes long and inhuman. As I watch, the slime is building itself around my toes, collecting on them and hardening. I flick my feet and the slime slides down them further, hardening at the tips like icicles or stalactites dripping and growing. The slime is so repulsive that I can't look away. This is my body. And this is what it looks like in this unstable moment.
I no longer know what is reality and what is imagination or hallucination.
All I know is, I have a tail. A fish tail. With fins forming off my feet. I kick my legs again, feeling dizzy at the way they ripple, like the bones in my legs were sectioned into vertebra.
I have gills. I have webbed fingers. I have a tail.
I pass out.
That first breath of air feels insubstantial. My lungs lift inside me, expecting weight to fill them, and I bob in the water. I can breathe.
Black night. I make out the shore in the distance and swim for it, my legs or tail feeling awkward and unsure. I don't want to bend my legs, don't want to feel how they move. But I can't swim without them.
When I crawl onto the beach, I realize I am naked and shivering. Shredded pieces of my swimsuit cling to my shoulders. I think the slime that coats my legs ate away at the fabric. But I don't know. I don't know anything.
I don't want to know anything. I want to pass out again.
I lay with my cheek pressed to the sand, waves washing over me, and breathe. Normal breaths. I wonder if I am still alive, or if this is after life and it only feels the same but isn't.
Then I look around, and see a beach house in front of me. Nathan's family's house. Three abandoned towels are sitting out. I drag myself to the biggest one, bleached white, and try to wrap it around me because even if this is the afterlife, I still appreciate clothing. But my legs are stuck to each other making standing impossible, so I have to roll myself up in the towel like a burrito, leaving my arms out to adjust me.
Then I lay there and breathe, and touch my neck with my strange hands. The gills are still there, but closed now, flat against my neck. Only small little ridges show where they are.
"Help," I say, and my voice rasps, my throat coated in salt. I cough and swallow. "Help. Help me!" My voice is hoarse.
I flip onto my stomach and try to crawl toward my house, but with my legs stuck together, and the towel dragging in the sand, my arms aren't strong enough.
"Help!" I say again, louder
The porch light flips on. The screen door squeaks open.
And I wish I hadn't said anything, because what will Nathan's parents say when they see me? Will they see me? Maybe I exist in an alternate dimension. Maybe I am dead and only a ghost.
Bare feet on the wooden steps.
"Cindy? Oh my gosh! Cindy!" Nathan, my boyfriend, runs down the beach toward me, and I wait for him to realize. He squints at me.
"Don't panic," I say, even though I haven't done much else. "I think..." My voice is scratchy. "I think I'm evolving into an aquatic animal. But I also think I might just be hallucinating." I kick my legs to make my point, and the hardened slime trailing off my toes breaks off. Encouraged that the transformation might not be permanent, I kick my legs harder and wiggle them against each other, trying to force them apart.
Nathan is still standing, staring at me.
I sit up and touch my legs for the first time since any of this began. They are dry and scaly. The slime flakes off in my hands. Rubbing at my legs, big chunks of it break off and disintegrate into the sand. When I pull my legs in opposite directions, there is a crackling noise and then they break apart from each other.
My heart flies up in my chest, thinking I've just broken off a piece of my leg, but no. My legs are all there, separate. They ache like I've exercised them too hard and pulled a muscle. I can feel the bones inside groaning and pulling together. I sit back on my hands, the towel still tucked tight around me, and wiggle my toes. Even my feet are looking more normal. More human. I hold up one hand, and then rub between my fingers with my other hand. The webbing comes off, dry and dusty.
I breathe in, and let my breath out in a whoosh.
I am human. I am still human.
I don't know what that was that happened in the water. I don't know if I lost consciousness and imagined it all, hallucinated it as I fought for air.
I don't know, and I don't want to know. I shift a leg and it bends at the knee, all proper and straight. I collapse back on the sand.
"Cindy?" Nathan asks.
I'd forgotten about him.
"It's okay," I say. "It's going to be alright. It was nothing. Just a little sea slime that got on me while I was swimming."
"Here," he says, crouching down to put an arm under my shoulder and help me to my feet.
I feel unsteady on my legs, like Ariel the first time on land. But no. Nothing like that. I've always been human. Always will be.
"You were gone for so long. We tried to find you. What happened to your swimsuit?"
"I think I went crazy," I say. "I think I turned into a mermaid."
The next morning, I sit on the wooden steps of my own family's beach house and look at the ocean, sparkling in the sunshine. Nathan brings me a bowl of cornflakes, but I'm not hungry. I didn't sleep.
"You feel better this morning?" he asks, sitting down next to me. "You sounded pretty freaked out last night."
His family's house is down the beach, just far enough to make out.
"I don't know," I say. Then I wish I didn't, because it makes me feel crazy and desperate, hearing myself. I take a bite of cornflakes and make myself chew.
"You want to talk about it?" Nathan asks.
I don't answer, because shaking my head makes it seem like a big deal, but I can't say anything. He'll think I'm insane.
"It was nothing," I say. "I was snorkeling and got too far out. A current caught me and pulled me under. I thought I was going to drown."
"That sounds pretty scary," he says. "How'd you make it out?"
I shrug. "I swam," I say.
"Diagonal to the rip tide, like they tell us?" he asked.
"Yeah, I guess. That's the only way to get out, right? I got lucky."
"Man. That's freaky stuff. You should take a buddy next time."
"Yeah. I guess so. But it turned out alright." I sip my cornflake milk and hand the bowl back to him, still full, because my mind had been working this whole time without telling me, only alerting me now that it's made a decision.
"I'd better get some rest," I say. "I'm pretty tired from yesterday."
"Okay. Good idea," Nathan says. "Guess you're not up for surfing today?"
"Maybe not. Sorry. Tomorrow though."
"For sure. Get some rest. I don't want you to drown."
I smile and stand. "See you later."
When he's gone, I get the kayak out of the garage and drag it out to the water with a paddle and a life vest. I push out into the water and climb in at the last second, my toes pushing off the sand. I row hard and fast, still tired but awake with anticipation.
When I get far enough that the shore can't easily make me out, I take off the life vest, clip it to the oar, and lock the oar into place on the side of the kayak.
Then I strip to my underwear. I'd really like to have clothes to put back on after this is over.
I stand, wobbling in the boat, arms outstretched, and eye the water. Then I jump.
The water enfolds me, wraps around me and makes my neck tingle.
I open my eyes.
My mouth is shut tight, air trapped in my lungs, turning me into a bubble.
The water is so blue and clear, light making patterns, caught in the folds of H2O molecules. I look over at the little boat and I hold my hands up to examine them. They are just hands.
I swim up a little and touch the boat, one hand on the side, head still underwater.
I try to open my mouth, but my brain overrides me, instinct kicking in.
My mouth is sealed shut, locking in the air I need to live. The air my brain thinks I need to live. I tell my brain that it came up with this idea in the first place. That if it doesn't work, I can lift my head out of the water in a second. That I won't drown. But my brain is having none of it.
Finally I come up for air and climb into the boat, dripping and cold. I wrap my arms around my legs.
I can't do this. What if it works? What if it doesn't work? What if it's irreversible? What if it was a one time thing? What if I'm crazy?
But I have to know. I have to know or the unknown will suffocate me, drown me in the undiscovered. This is me. This is my body. My life.
I have to know.
Gritting my teeth, I slide over the edge of the boat again, sinking underwater.
I close my eyes, shut down my brain. Drown out everything but the lull of the water against my skin, rocking me, swaying with the tide.
I breathe in.
reading recommendation: The Sometimes Mermaid by Lauren DeStefano
(photo courtesy of Idi Samarajiva)
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