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The survivor did not know how they originally ended up in this position. But after the first time, they returned again and again. They came to cherish it. Of all portions of the day, these subdued moments were the best. Floating aimlessly.
The water held the survivor up with a thousand softly swishing hands. The ebb and flow of each aquatic fingertip lapped against their body. Each wave swayed in time with the pitter-patter of rain against the roof. The rhythmic environment rocked them like a lullaby. Though unable to sleep, the soothing cadence brought hazy respite.
The swimming pool was the only medicine left that worked anymore. Any other alternatives, like sleep medicine, could no longer resolve insomnia. The illness had a firm grasp, squeezing the functionality dry until there was nothing left. The survivor’s resulting fatigue was intolerable. Lying awake in bed, unable to sleep. Their body continued to fail them, the illness taking its course to claim its victim.
They knew they were dying. The moment their hand had come in contact with that incurable illness, their fate was sealed. The survivor had accepted things how they were. That they would not remain a survivor for much longer.
So they focused their eyes on something else. The ceiling above, illuminated in reflections of the pool’s shimmering water. The beguiling blues peacefully danced across the darkness. The water surrounding them was much the same. Gleaming from spotlights embedded in the pool. It was crystal clear as well, revealing the simple marble floor below.
Amongst the serene yet simple atmosphere, the survivor had something to grasp onto. Or more so, be peacefully enveloped in. The unreality of slipping away welcomed them. Frail and surreal, they enjoyed it while it lasted. It was one of the only things that put their mind at ease these days.
They shut their eyes. The days were waning. Fleeting like burning pages of a journal one at a time. Their sense of time had been long lost. Though with ears under water, the rest of their senses were muted as well. No particular one stood out. Each significance dwindled, rendering the lack of all more bearable. Perhaps, it was a bit extreme. Though the disconnect from reality subsided the severity of it.
The resulting nothingness was an invited trance. A black so deep it felt like the mere absence of anything at all. Into the darkness, the survivor voluntarily sunk deeper. Careening in any which way was met with no resistance. It flowed around them, molded by their touch. Only their touch.
Most of the time, they sculpted an unattainable dream. One of the many dreams unfit for the day. There was nothing much to it. Only a void where the suffering was absent. After everything, that was the least the survivor could wish for. An end to the tormented mind. The necessity of alertness became rendered obsolete. In its place, there was relaxation.
The survivor twitched as the illusion briefly broke. A phantom pain burned where an arm once was. The rashes of the other hand itched perpetually. Another world, once a portal away, would never allow for this sort of experience. For peace.
Murky waters would have bogged them down relentlessly. The creeping feeling of being stalked. An incessant bated breath while monitoring for the next ambush. The impossible obligation to deal with matters no one should ever be subjected to. All under the increasing stress of a withering vessel. The crazed voices had sung to the agonized sound of the survivor’s screaming.
As if that brutal spotlight had not been enough, dear friends were lost in a battle that never should have involved them. Undeserved casualties of love warped into obsession. A bloodied heart painted in morbid tenderness welcomed the survivor to reopen that catastrophic closet. With guilty acknowledgment, they complied.
Every detail of Jared’s battered body was still as vivid as the day they discovered him. The puddles of crimson. His face turned blue. Sightless eyes bulging from his eye sockets. Sleeves cut off to reveal irritated cuts and weltering burns in circular shapes along his arms. Mouth wide open, silently screaming “It’s your fault.” A wire strung from the ceiling held him up like an angel, condemning the survivor’s proclivity for misfortune to all who came in contact.
Perhaps the survivor was the incurable illness personified.
The survivor could only screw their eyes shut for a moment. The ghastly corpse was blocked out. Though the remorse festered evermore. They peeked out again, wishing to find a more pleasant vision. A desire for water, clean and clear. A Styx that ran wet and wild below Devil’s Bridge.
Instead, the accountability of their devastating existence was confirmed. A defective weapon hanging out of their ceiling was the telltale sign. The survivor could hardly look down. But they forced themself to view the cruelty of the world. Their precious cat, Sherlock, impaled like a pin cushion. The blood flowed toward the survivor. Beckoning them to join.
They raced backward in panic. Each step triggered an explosion. It shook them to their core. They fell to their knees, hugging something firm. No. Hugging someone . The origin of this death-like touch. Clouds of smoke cleared, and the survivor wished they remained a thick fog.
The love of their life, Sally. Blown to a whole new dimension by none other than the survivor’s foolish mistakes- an invention worthless in the grand scheme of things. The survivor cradled her limp body impossibly closer. Then they begged for her to answer. To survive alongside them. She could not leave them. Not like this.
Sally’s mouth never formed a response. There was no breath to afford any sound. Ages ago, the initial tragedy had been, and still the survivor could relive it without a single missing detail. Any attempt to bury it in their backyard failed. The dirt and grass were not potent enough to contain it.
And during the subsequent turmoil, the survivor had dreamed of the day they returned to Sally. That it would only be the two of them. Until the gift of a child was shared with them. Blueprints for a new life- Aimsey, the sweetest child constructed with love and care. Too old for her own good. She selflessly carried the position of caretaker over the person who should have been his guardian.
Admittedly, it felt nice to be cared for. Even better to love wholeheartedly again.
From then on, the survivor had learned there was more to live for. Only for it to die by their own negligence. A morbid, modern retelling of Saturn devouring his son. The nuts and bolts scattered across the floor, framing a broken machine of a corpse. Aimsey had been human, more human than most. The survivor had never fathomed the state of his deconstructed mechanism until it was forced before their fretting eyes. Nor was retrieving their child’s decapitated head originally on their agenda.
But the world had its way with things. Its watchful eye of red was programmed to exterminate. However, the survivor would not remain a victim to circumstances. They campaigned for their way against the world as well. And to get the final laugh, no matter how tearful and despairing. After all, the all-knowing eye had been a ruse.
The survivor had felt Aimsey’s lifeless eyes watch them in judgment as they left that world in ruins. For once, the survivor was not to blame. There was no reason to stay. They would blow their brains out if they had. All their questionable choices had culminated in that destined decision to see the other side.
There was blood on their hands. The blood of loved ones that would continue to haunt them. Jared and Sherlock were only the start of the end. They had just begun moving on from Sally to have Aimsey ripped from them so cruelly. Back then, they could have ended it all.
The survivor would have willingly died.
But they were cursed to out-live all of which they treasured in that past world. A world now long gone to the universe. Though the remnants of it were imbued inside the survivor. They were a living relic of a devastating war.
Unfair. Words would never be able to truly describe how unfair the alternate world had treated them. They were justified to leave it a wreck. Return the favor of dismembering, mutilation, and murder. Let it rot in the stench of its own malignancy. Oh how sweet, the fragrance smelled to the survivor. They basked in that sensation.
Sweet victory. Short-lived victory. For the survivor was aware the clock was running out. Ticking towards the eleventh hour. When it struck, their world would collapse in its destined ill manner. They could already see it, no matter how unreal those visions were.
And yet, the survivor smiled to themself. Unlike the scum of the earth who had ruined their life, they would leave this mortal coil peacefully. Victory persevered, though bittersweet.
Until then, they would go with the flow. Though all their tears and rage could load a revolver, they forfeited it at the pool side. There was nothing left to fight against. Nor fight for.
In that emptiness, the survivor was at peace.