He stares in horror, eyes boring into yours, panic swirling turbulently within his pupils; outlining your figure in desperate hope.

 

You see the word form on his lips in slow motion.

 

Dad.

 

Fara shouts from somewhere behind you.

 

“Wait, just wait, hold on, don’t let go!”

 

The ship shudders, someone screams, and Layven’s hand is so small.

 

So tiny, so small, so… cold.

 

You freeze. It is too much, it is too much, you can’t—

You let go.

 

He screams, his mouth stretching open, crying into empty air.

 

But you can’t hear him over the sound of the crashing thunder, resounding waves of ruthless roars overwhelming everything; drowning for release.

 

He is gone.

 

The world goes pitch-black, the eerie silence of an underwater world. It’s silent. Quiet. An infinity of ice growing into your bone marrow, while the saltwater snuffs out your voice.

 

Fara’s horrified wail is what drags you back to reality.

 

But by then, isn’t it too late?

 

-

 

You wake up in a cold sweat.

 

The harsh, ice cold night air stings your frail skin, as you stare at your trembling hands.

 

Clenching and unclenching, over and over again.

 

In this dry weather, where skin cracks and patience evaporates, your hands still feel slimy.

 

Grimy and gritty with sand that digs into creases of your palms, sea salt churns a sickening black, dissolving formlessly into translucent sweat.

 

You are cold.

 

Wrapping the quilt around yourself, you ignore the slick feeling of your palms on icy metal as you slide open the windows.

 

The rumbling crashes of the sea pours in with the window’s gradual opening; a cool night wind follows.

 

As the tangy smell of the seaside curls into your silent room, you take a deep breath, letting the biting breeze clear your mind of errant thoughts.

 

With a familiar practice, you stare out into the direction of the sea, hands gripping the edges of the window sill; prominent veins bleached of blood.

 

At this time of night it is too dark to see anything, except for the few glimmering lights of far-off boats in the distance. Flickering unsteadily with the rise and fall of the waves, they are shimmering stars, capturing attention with every subtle movement.

 

You imagine the soft sands of the beach, gently moistened with swirling tongues of water.

 

The rustling sounds of the beach resonate around your room, and it brings to mind the soft, lapping waters.

 

You wade in through a daze.

 

The water reaches around your ankles first.

 

Then your calves, and your waist.

 

When it reaches your neck, the sea strips off its mask of mellowness, strong undercurrents pushing and pulling against your body, threatening your balance.

 

You stumble, and you fall.

 

You submerge.

 

Even as the salt water rushes through your starved lungs, even as your muscles twitch spasmodically, even as your hands claw through bubbles that escape your grasp, dissipating into the far surface, your mind quietens.

It hurts, stabbing burning needles into every part of your body, strangling your throat mercilessly.

 

It feels like you are being torn apart, pricking stabs of teeth wringing you out, blazing along your veins and pounding wretched wails into your skull.

 

Just as everything reaches a crescendo, you–

 

You wake up, the booming sounds of thunder causing the ground to seemingly shake underneath you, and your vision buzzes accordingly.

 

The world tilts precariously, shuddering.

 

Pressing a hand to your aching head, you steady the other against the wall, the smooth surface bringing a sense of stability.

 

Your eyes clear at last, and everything comes into focus.

 

It seems that you fell asleep leaning on the windowsill.

 

Rays of dawning sunlight caress your face tenderly, streaming warm bands of lustrous yellow across the room. You rub your eyes blearily, and squint into the distant horizon.

 

Watching greyish-black clouds spread like spilled ink over the originally shimmering blue skies, darkening the distance in omens of a furious thunderstorm, you sigh heavily. The original scene of entrancing sunshine seems nothing more than a faraway fantasy now. You wish the skies could just stay clear for once.

 

Closing your eyes to allow yourself a blissful moment of silence, you promptly shut the window and turn the other way, burying further into your blankets.

 

Even as the resounding thunder and the lashing rhythm of rain drops increases in volume, stomping heavily across the ceiling, you find yourself drifting back into a dreamless slumber.

 

-

 

You shovel the steaming spoon of beans into your mouth, whetting the salty taste with the squishy blandness of a slice of soft wholemeal bread.

 

You don’t go out. It feels like there are always people watching you in disgust when you do. Whispering, cursing, bringing the glaring clicks of camera shutters with them. And Fara’s sobbing voice, grief reverberating and resounding from every screen, every play, every click.

 

You don’t want to go out. 

 

Ordering packets of canned food, vegetables and frozen food has been your go to for years. You figure that if you suddenly died one day, it would take at least a few months for someone to think something was up. It’s better this way, just staying inside.

 

Slowly savouring your breakfast, you chew methodically, peering out into the pouring, turbid sheets of rain.

 

You guess you’ll just stay inside today.

 

The rain is heavy. Even though you don’t want to, the image of towering, choppy waves beneath a furious, cracking sky comes unbidden.

 

Your brows subconsciously furrow.

 

Glancing back at the mushy bowl of canned beans, you suddenly lose your appetite. The remains of the food in your mouth turn heavy; tasteless.

 

You put the spoon in your hand back down, and push the already cooling metal bowl away.

 

Dragging your feet over to the basin, you spit the half-chewed food in your mouth out. Bits and pieces of saliva, mashed beans and bread trickle down your chin, dripping viscous onto the shiny metal.

 

Your warped reflection in the metal floor of the basin is splattered and broken apart, separated by islands of indistinguishable mush and murky streams of vomit.

 

Turning on the tap, the torrent of water washes it all away.

 

You wet a tissue slightly and then wipe your face thoroughly. Rubbing over and over until your skin feels like it’s about to peel off from the excessive force, you quietly think that it would be nice if all your thoughts were swept away just like that, too.

 

Clean, with not a trace left behind.

 

Crumpling up the tissue, you toss it into the dustbin and shuffle off to sit on the sofa.

 

There are various oddly-shaped pillows and stuffed animals nestled in a mound there. Neon green dinosaurs, grumpy cat faces, furry plush dogs. The one that stands out the most though, is a gigantic, hairy dolphin pillow. Nearly three-quarters of your size, it is surprisingly light to hold. You bury your head into its body. You still remember when Fara first brought it back home to the absolute joy of Layven. It was his first, proclaimed "bestest friend forever!". He would refuse to let you wash it, and bring it everywhere with him. Even after the blue faded, and the threads fell and split apart, he always loved it. 

 

You'll keep it forever. 

 

You hate to admit it to anyone, but you slightly understand Layven's love for the plush. It's comforting. What would Layven say if he saw you hogging his favorite plushie? He would probably go complain to Fara, like he always does, and Fara would…

 

You feel tired. The rain is too noisy today.

 

You turn on the television to the highest volume, shutting out the sounds of the rain.

 

The outside scenery as monotonously unremitting as the newscaster’s dull tone, you curl up on the sofa, hugging a pillow to your chest.

 

The words barely filter through to your ears, smothered as it is by the rainstorm and your failing focus.

 

You blink once, blink twice, and ease into familiar unconsciousness.

 

-

 

You reach out.

 

A whisper that grows with the fury of the waves, it crashes into your being, overwhelming every sensation. 

 

Salt water boring into your lungs, your shaky hands, your screaming mind, you reach out nevertheless.

ut he is gone, and all your hands hold now is empty saline, devouring the pleading wails of his memory.

 

Solely your fault.

 

-

 

When you awaken once again, it is sunset. 

 

Warm orange hues reach through the misted glass doors, softly tracing blurry, indistinct lines of shadows on the granite floor. Out in the distant horizon, traces of faint black are already sneaking along the edges of the weak light, wavering a sickly pale pallor.

 

The bright colours of the television are almost blinding in contrast.

 

The curt newswoman on television had been switched out with a pot-bellied man in a suit, you note distractedly.

 

Fingering the buttons on the remote absentmindedly, few words of his enter your mind.

 

“...And now, for the coastal area of Astilbe, it is predicted there will be frequent thunderstorms and heavy rain at least for the next few weeks– remember to pack your umbrellas’, folks– with temperatures expected to range from…”

 

You shut the television off.

 

Tossing the remote onto the sofa, you get up heavily, feeling a slight ache in your back as you do so.

 

You want to go back in time. You want to wake up. 

 

Nightmares cannot last forever.

 

-

 

Your abandoned lunch from the afternoon distracts you. Running a hand over your forehead in weariness, you cover the bowl in cling wrap and decide to reuse the utensils from lunch.

 

Although it is crusted in bits of dried and mushy food, with unappetising marks of food stained all over the surface, you don’t really care.

 

And the bread doesn't look too bad.

 

It's just limp.

 

Tossing it on a plate to microwave, you slide it inside with a soft 'clink'. You set the timer to a couple minutes and leave.

 

After ruminating by the fridge door for a while, you decide to heat up a packet of frozen mushroom soup for dinner.

 

The sudden drop in temperature leaves your hands uncomfortably clammy.

 

Holding the icy packet of soup and watching as frigid droplets of water condense on your skin, tracing lines of water downwards as they drip noiselessly onto the floor, you shiver from a sudden chill.

 

Cold.

 

Letting the fridge door swing to a shut behind you, you empty out the frozen soup into a saucepan and leave it to boil on the stove.

 

Layven loved mushroom soup. The creamier the better, and he would eat all the large mushrooms floating in the soup before anyone else could get to it. You weren't such a big fan of mushrooms, but after a while of eating it on a regular basis, you grew to hold an odd fondness for it. 

 

The soup is fragrant, and spirals of steam curl upwards. Contrary to its delectable look, the soup tastes slimy, like tasteless gelatin. It slides down your throat, bitter as soap.

 

You're not going to finish it anyway. Telling yourself so, you ladle the soup into a second bowl and grab another pair of cutlery from the drawer.  You choose a spoon decorated with drawings of princesses and dragons, and a plastic fork shaped like a pitchfork. The original cutlery was all replaced a long time ago with more colourful, playful versions.

 

You couldn't be bothered to switch it back.

 

By the time you are finished, it is already dark out. You can see the slight illumination of street lamps in the distance, seemingly lonely in their steadfast duty to light up a path for others.

 

You don’t feel like washing the dishes right now.

 

It’s been a tiring day.

 

Turning the lights in the living room off, you fumble around in the darkness for a while, stumbling into your bedroom at last.

 

Your slumber that night is peacefully uninterrupted.

 

-

The skies are clear today.

 

You know you don’t want to, but today is different. What is it?

 

You have no choice but to leave to quell this unfounded notion of yours. Why all of a sudden? Maybe you ate something wrong yesterday? Why do you suddenly want to go out? Why?

 

Maybe it's because it isn't raining today…? Possessed and robbed of the energy to resist, you walk towards the door and reach to take your sandals from the shoe cabinet. It feels foggy. Your mind is muddled and confused. But if this is what you're supposed to do, then you shall. What is wrong with you? Every thought and action is blurred, and shrouded in mist.

 

Why?

 

Your sandals are dirty with dust, you notice. Grey spots flake off onto your fingers. Uneasily, you look towards the other shoes beside it. Peeling high heels, crumbling sports shoes and spider webs in the spaces of sneakers. Kids shoes, long discoloured of their original sparkle and glitter. Has it really been that long? Something in the back of your mind accuses you of forgetting to take care of them. How could you forget?

 

But that's not what you need to do right now. So you ignore the swelling drops of shame and leave it all behind.

 

An urgent sense of unease leads you on, tugging your being towards the ocean. 

 

Each step of the way, your body feels sluggish; limbs dragging forward in slow motion. Watching your feet move steadily onwards is oddly disorientating, like you are the lone audience in the theatre of your mind, unable to do anything but sit and stare.

 

The fresh, crisp air is uncomfortable on your throat. The wind kicks up simultaneously, leading to grains of sand being stuck in your eyes.

 

You sigh deeply, and then choke once again on sand that took that brief chance to fly into your throat.

 

Unconscious tears blur your vision as you squat down for a moment, taking the chance to hack your lungs out. Wiping an arm over your eyes, you then walk unsteadily forward.

 

Why are you here?

 

Damp clumps of sand squelch in between the gaps of your toes as you plop yourself down onto the ground. The water softly laps against your feet in an unceasing rhythm, cleansing it of sand and yet bringing back innumerable grains, over and over again.

 

This close to the sea, the pungent, fishy smell invades your senses, making it so you can’t focus on your thoughts.

 

Why are you here?

 

You can't remember, but it feels important.

 

It's something important.

 

You can't leave, because it's important.

 

You wait, fidgeting with various stones and sticks washed up in the sand around you. Scooping up palmfuls of sand and watching as it trickles through your fingers, you while away the time in a trance. Little waterfalls of sand, gaps in between letting the glimmering, indistinct morning light escape through.

 

The shrill cries of seagulls echo through the vast sky, melding seamlessly into the background noise of the crashing waves. 

 

There is no one here.

 

Poking little holes in the sand with a finger, you rest your head on your knees, surveying the empty surroundings.

 

You close your eyes for just a moment, drifting away on bobbing waves, into the endless sea.

 

-

 

He smiles, giving you and Fara a wide, toothy grin.

 

Holding up seashells in his hands, Layven proclaims proudly, “Look, Mom! I found so many seashells; even a few cone shaped ones! Put this one to your ear, you'll hear weird sounds!"

 

“You sure?”

 

Fara asks teasingly, ruffling his hair.

 

“Yes! Mom, you just try it out for yourself!”

 

He pushes a big, conical-shaped shell into her hands.

 

Fara holds it up to her ear, tilting her head with a look of acute concentration. With her scrunched brows and pursed lips, you think that she looks like she’s heavily constipated, prompting you to chuckle slightly.

 

Fara merely rolls her eyes at you.

 

She doesn't keep Layven waiting for long. Forming an 'O' shape with her mouth, she pulls at Layven’s cheeks, praising him all the way.

 

“Layvan, you're right! Mom can also hear sounds, like tiny whispers! How did you find out?”

 

“Mom, I found it by accident! Stop it, it makes me all itchy,” Layvan says, flustered. His face beams with childish joy and pride, nevertheless.

Pushing Fara’s hands away, he turns to you and looks up tentatively.

 

“How about you, Dad?”

 

Taking and putting a conical-shaped shell next to your ear, you are about to say something when some of the sand falls into your ear.

 

You yelp and tilt your ear perpendicular to the ground, shaking your head furiously in a bid to get rid of the itchy feeling.

 

“Fa- Fara, help me! I’ve got sand in my ear!”

 

She laughs, saying, “You dummy,” before reaching around to take a water bottle out of her bag.

 

As she dampens a handkerchief with water and passes it to you, she continues, “Layvan, don’t be like your dad, okay? Don't pour sand in your ear so carelessly."

 

Layvan nods obediently.

 

“Hey!” Pressing the cloth to your ear with a hand, you reach out another to whack Fara’s shoulder. 

 

She giggles and dodges your hand, leaving it dangling there awkwardly for a few moments.

 

Layven bursts into a fit of laughter.

 

It continues for a long time.

 

Sharp, piercing, it distorts into a guttural scream, accusing you, attacking you.

You startle awake.

 

It seems as if his laughter follows you out of your dreams.

 

You frown, and press your hands tightly to your ears.

 

It's still there.

 

Still there, you sway to your feet unsteadily, looking for the source of the sound.

 

Everything is the way it was before, except for his voice.

A laugh rings out from behind you.

 

You spin around, nearly stumbling in the process.

 

There is nobody there.

 

Nobody, just the formless air.

 

Nothing.

 

Then why? You heard it, you felt it, you know that it is there, oh.

 

Oh.

 

It’s there, you heard it. 

 

So it must be Layven. Only him.

 

It’s been so long, he must have made it back somehow.

 

He must have.

 

Layven is back. The sea is so large, he could have ended up anywhere. Is he here? He must be back, he must be safe, because you know. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here! If Layven is back, will Fara come back too? He’s here, he’s here, 

Fara is wrong! 

 

Pricks of itchiness swim along the edges of your eyes, smudging your vision into a riot of colours.

 

You have to look for him. You have to see him again.

 

The world rumbles beneath your feet, shifting tides of sound. 

 

You don't know what Layven is saying. But you can hear him, indistinguishable mumbles that are too familiar, so familiar it cannot be anyone else but him.

 

You hear your name, and Fara’s.

 

Layven drags syllables out, mincing and crushing them together; it hardly sounds like him, it’s too muffled, too distorted, too soft.

 

It feels like his voice would disappear at any moment.

 

No, he can’t!

 

He just came back, you can’t let him go again. He can’t leave, he can’t leave, how could you let him go?

 

Where is he? Where?

 

Why? Why? What sort of sick joke was this, that you could still hear him, and not see him? Where was he? Why? 

 

No matter what you do, his voice only echoes, grinding your whirling emotions into powder, whirling dust storms of confusion and rage shaking the sky and rumbling the ground— you cannot hear you cannot see you cannot feel anything but water, water violent choking water rushing and eating your limbs, your breath and you don’t know what to do once again.

 

No. No. You can’t hear him anymore. No, no, no.

 

Why?

 

What do you do? It’s all your fault.

 

You don’t know, so you turn to guilt, to anger, to fear, and run.

 

You turn away, running from this sudden silence.

 

You run back home, fleeing the sea that carries his presence.

 

‘Coward. How could I have ever married someone like you?’

 

How could you run away?

 

‘It’s all your fault.’

Because you don’t know what else to do.

 

‘I hate you.’

Halfway up the steps to home, your foot catches against a stair and you fall, plunging headfirst forwards.

 

Hands scrabbling for a firm hold, scraping against small stones and debris hidden in between the cracks of the wooden planks, tiny gaps and scratches of crimson red tear open in your skin. The splinters from the railings and the sand swallow your blood. Red blooms.

 

You gasp heavily as the pain shocks itself in.

 

It stings, it stings; you can’t tell what’s happening anymore.

 

Your hands glisten, the floor dulls, and it’s cold— so, so cold.

 

Where? Why?

 

Where is Layven?

The sofa, a blanket, warmth, you disappear.

Empty space and formless air.

 

You were searching for something important. Someone.

 

The feeling nags at your heart. What was it again? Who was it?

 

You see Fara in the distance. She stands in the middle of nowhere, expressionlessly watching as you walk towards her. 

 

She has the answer you are missing.

 

The moment you open your mouth to ask, her face warps. The muscles distorting, her eyes bulging, dirty purple crawls up her limbs. Her flesh peels rapidly, and her skin wrinkles and crumbles away. Lips receding, teeth jutting from her gums, her cheeks are shredded apart as she screams silently, hands reaching for you.

 

As if there is an invisible barrier between the both of you, her rotting fingers stop just short of your face. Screaming, crying, laughing, her expressions flit from one to another as her face browns to black. Her body is swiftly withering, and murky water pours from the widening holes in her skin.

 

‘Why?’

 

She mouths out. Teeth, nails, a ring, fall from within the depths of her mouth.

 

‘Why don’t you help me?’

 

Instead of blood, she bleeds water. The raw, slimy smell of saltwater fills the air. It stuffs your nostrils up.

 

‘Coward, it’s all your-’

 

She never gets to finish, as rising water gushes over both of you, knocking her away in the sudden torrent. She is dragged away into the horizon.

 

Through it all the only thing you hear is the ringing of falling water drops.

You wake up in the bathtub.

 

You notice that the faucet is leaking. 

 

The water ripples as you heave yourself out of the bath.

 

You hazily register the darkness of the sky.

 

An acute throb of pain reminds you.

 

You look down.

Coats of unidentifiable dirt chafe against the lines of your wounds, forming sticky masses around the bleeding, exposed flesh of your palms.

 

It hurts.

 

You dump your hands under running water, and then wrap them with a cloth. You can’t remember how you got here.

 

You slump onto your bed in weariness, feeling the chilly brushes of a cold draft seep into your still soaking clothing.

 

Your eyes shut.

It is a dreamless sleep. 

 

You can’t remember the last time you slept so well. Something has changed in you. For once, for once in a long, long time, you feel better.

 

Why?

 

-

You take an old, out-dated looking toaster from a side cabinet. Holding it in your hands and surveying it carefully, you wipe the dust off of it and connect it to a power socket.

 

It turns on with a loud hum.

 

Toasted bread. Fresh eggs, slightly runny, with a pinch of pepper. Two cups of fresh milk and a coffee with a single teaspoon of sugar.

 

A breakfast for three.

 

Finally satisfied, you take a seat at the dining table, carefully rewrapping the cloth around your hands as you do so.

 

Although you are only wearing a shirt today, the weather doesn’t feel as chilly as it usually does. 

 

It’s a sign that things are going to turn for the better, isn’t it?

-

You throw away the dishes of food into the dustbin, replacing it with a large plate. On it sits a strawberry and cream cheese cake. Little roses and green ferns decorate its sides– you remember Fara gushing over how cute those were. 

 

A thick layer of crushed biscuit covers the bottom of the cake. When slicing the cake and passing it out, you cut the portion of biscuit off your share and slide it onto Layven’s plate. You remember how much he likes those, always asking bashfully for yours and Fara’s portion.

 

You stretch and give out a loud yawn.

 

You feel more active these days. 

 

The weather has been getting warmer. 

You sweep the sand and dust off the porch. The sky is overcast, painted in splotches of greyish-black clouds, quite contrary to the mellow temperature you’ve been having lately. Placing the broom back into a closet, you head back in, your joints slightly aching as you do so.

 

It’s been a busy day.

 

You want the house to be as clean as possible, so that when they return, they’ll come back to a warm, welcoming home. While washing the windows this morning, you saw the nearly indiscernible scars in your palm and recalled the time you tripped on the stairs. You’ve been far more careful ever since, because if you don’t take care of the house, then who would want to return home?

You will see them soon. You can’t wait.

 

It’s been raining quite frequently recently, and so you decide to turn on the heater. No one would want to come back to a cold house.

 

You must make the house warm, and welcoming.

 

As the sun disappears beneath the gleaming horizon, you set up the tables once again for dinner. 

 

You’ve been given a chance. Your last chance.

A chance to redeem yourself, to do something, to help.

 

If you fulfil your role as you were supposed to this time, then everything will be okay. 

 

-

They’ll be back soon. 

 

So today you wait by the door. The hours pass, the clock ticks, and it is night. It isn’t as cold as you envisioned it to be, sleeping on the floor. 

 

That freezing past and chilling memories cannot touch you now. As long as you wait.

 

With the passing of a few breaths, it is morning again.

 

Is it because it was raining yesterday night that they didn’t come back?

 

That’s okay. You can wait.

 

Darkness dips your surroundings into a quiet abyss. You peer through the peephole. 

 

Nothing. 

 

You can wait. Maybe it was because you didn’t do enough. You must make the house welcoming.

 

There are flowers on the table and kitchen countertop. Plastic daisies, faded roses, drooping sunflowers, moldy lilies— and a single, blooming marigold. Pieces and parts of bouquets lining the walls, growing a musty scent of dust.

 

You slouch down by the front door and hug a bouquet of flowers. You bury your head in them tiredly. Ransacking the storeroom had taken quite a lot of energy out of you.

 

You’ll give this bouquet in your hands to Fara, and she’ll be happy again.

It’s your fault. So you should wait. 

 

Day and night, the cries of seagulls and hoots of owls, it blurs into an infinite ring of sensation. Dim light dapples your hands, reflecting beams off of your ring onto the walls. It is clean; polished, glossy and warm.

 

You rub the ring all over. Each and every groove, the carved names, the still metal.

 

It’s cold. The ring is too cold, against the glimmering warmth of this home. So you rub and twist and knead until you can make the metal feel warm again. It feels like something is slipping away with every turn you make, water droplets leaking from a broken pipe, slowly, quietly, lamenting their fall.

 

You must wait. This is what you deserve, so you must wait for however long it takes.

 

-

 

The morning is frigid, the heat of the sun buried behind the patchwork of the clouds.

A knock sounds tentatively against the door. Softly echoing, as if afraid of disturbing the man waiting behind.

 

Your eyelids flicker awake. Everything is monochrome. The bright flowers, the rings, the lights. But through the grainy windows, the glistening expanse of the sea makes itself clear to you. You should have known. It’s all your fault. Everybody knows it’s your fault.

 

You were wrong. You are in the wrong, so of course you should be the one to go find him. They are waiting. You must go.

 

Fara’s ring is in your pocket. She threw it away when she left, but you dug out the rubbish to find it again. You have made it clean again.

 

-

You leave.

 

You should have known. How could you have forgotten? 

 

That cold house of yours, leaking rainwater through the roof, long abandoned. The dripping sounds of water and clumps of sand in the lines of the floor. The walls shaky, dizzy, rumbling in fear at the slightest thunderstorm. The rotting cake, the curdled milk, cradled by hollow flowers cut from the yellowed papers of marriage. Decrepit ceiling lights and splintered brooms, lying with brittle fragments of power cables. Sand, salt, and the emptiness.

Now, the rhythmic pounding of waves against the beach fills it all up. 

 

There is soothing warmth emanating from the sea, the coziness welcoming you in after a long night spent outside. The way the light sparkles off the sea foam entrances you. It reminds you of sunny days spent walking along the beach, hand-in-hand with Fara, and rainy days whiled away watching Layven draw little figures on the foggy sliding doors, the light from the living room captured in the sparkling droplets of rain.

 

You’re going back home, to your family.

 

The water pushes you around, making you stumble. The current seems to push you back, towards the shore. The sand shifts beneath your feet, and your arms flail.

 

You can’t let this stop you again. 

 

This time, you won’t let go.

Sparks flicker, and flee your grasp.

 

Just a little further. 

 

You can feel it. 

 

Your lungs tear and rip, while your throat shreds itself out. Veins throb while your ears scream from the pressure. Your eyes can see nothing but the terrible, terrible pain. Crushing, smothering, suffocating agony.

 

Was this how Layven felt?

 

It’s okay. It’s okay. This is what you have to do. Hold on. It’s what you have to do.

 

It hurts, it hurts! You can’t ever let go, no matter what. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Did Layven feel this way too? It hurts. You can’t let go. It’s going to be okay. This is what you have to do. It hurts. You must hold on. This is what you have to do.

Please, let it be.

Hands stretch forward. Ghostly alien, bleached white against black.

 

You catch it.

 

This time, you hold on.  

 

You never let go.

 

As you feel yourself disappear into the swirling waves, you are warm, in this cold, empty world.

 

The ring falls from your loosening hands. Bubbles follow its slow descent downwards.

 

Down, down, down…

Down.

Fara catches it.

 

She smiles, her eyes curving into twin crescent moons. She brushes past the quiet, final barrier separating your worlds. Curtains of congealed guilt sway, and dissolve.

 

She is happy.

 

And Layven, your dear Layven laughs once again.

 

Something shatters, and breaks into irremediable pieces.

 

You held on, and it was the right thing to do.

 

You missed them.

 

Ah. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Let’s go home.”