World After

60

EVERY CELL in my body freezes, then explodes into ice shards. The ice needles pierce and collide all through me. At least, that’s what it feels like.

It’s the most intense when the water engulfs my head, as if the top of my head was the last bastion of warmth in my body. I need to shriek from the shock of it but my lungs are so frozen and contracted that shrieking is beyond me.

Dark turbulence rolls me around as I cannonball down. I lose all sense of body and direction.

I eventually stop tumbling but as soon as I stop, I’m not sure which way is up. My body tries to thrash around as the stopwatch on the air in my lungs ticks away.

I never would have thought that I might not know up from down but without gravity and light, I can’t tell what’s what. I’m terrified to pick a direction.

Bubbles brush by me and I have thoughts of horrible things coming at me from the watery depths of hell. All those half-lucid nights with Mom chanting away in the dark, painting images of demons dragging me into hell, come flooding back in the enormous coffin that is the sea. Are those dark shapes moving in the water or—?

Knock it off.

Air. Swim. Think.

No time to get sucked into a swirl of pointless drivel that isn’t going to help in any way.

Bubbles.

Something about the bubbles.

Don’t bubbles float up?

I put my hand to my mouth to feel the bubbles and let a precious bit of air out of my burning lungs. They tickle as they float across my face and past my ear.

I follow them sideways, or what feels like sideways. Water currents can drift bubbles in any direction but eventually, they go up, right? I certainly hope so.

I let out more bits of air, trying not to let out more than I need to, until the bubbles consistently touch my nose on their way up. I kick as hard as I can, following the bubbles as fast as my burning lungs can drive me.

I begin to despair that I’m going the wrong direction when I notice that the water is becoming more iridescent, lighter. I swim harder.

Finally, my head breaks through the surface and I take a huge gulp. Salty water pours into my mouth as the choppy sea slaps me in the face. My lungs constrict and I desperately try to control my coughs so that I don’t breathe in another mouthful of water.

The sea erupts beside me and something bursts up.

Head, arms, wings. The angel I tangoed with has found his way up too.

He thrashes, desperately gulping air and splashing all over the place. His feathers are drenched and he doesn’t look like he can swim very well. His arms flounder and his wings flap, slapping the water pointlessly.

He’s being kept afloat by his thrashing but that’s a very exhausting way to swim. If he was human, he would have spent all his energy by now and drowned.

I turn away and kick the water. I’m so cold I can barely lift my arms.

The angel’s wing sweeps forward and blocks me. It corrals me into him as he thrashes.

I fumble for my knife, hoping it’s still stuck in my nylon band. My hand is so frozen, I can barely feel it but it’s there. It’s just a regular knife, not an angel blade, but it’ll still cut him. He’ll still feel the pain and bleed. Well, maybe in this cold, he won’t feel much but I have to try.

He reaches for me and I slash at his hand.

He pulls back, then reaches for me with his other hand, grabbing my hair. I stab into his forearm. He lets go but grabs me with his slashed hand as he splashes about.

He pulls me in toward him, his arms climbing over me and pulling me down in the classic drowning thrash that water safety instructors warn you about.

I take a deep breath. He shoves my head into the icy water and it engulfs me again.

I don’t know if he’s trying to drown me in a final I’m-taking-you-with-me gesture or if he’s just thrashing on instinct. Either way, I’ll end up dead if he has his way.

I slash with all the panic I have of my own, cutting him deep across his torso and arms. Over and over again.

Blood warms the water.

His grip loosens and I manage to bob my head up to gulp a lungful of air. He’s not pushing me under any more but he’s still holding onto me.

“You’re not the only monster in this world,” I gasp. There are great white sharks in northern California. Our surfers and sharks seem to have a truce for the most part, except for the rare shark attack. But no one would ever go into our water while bleeding.

I slash hard across his chest. Ribbons of blood flow out around him.

My eyes meet his. He thinks I’m talking about me being the monster. Maybe he’s right.

I’m no great white but all this knife stabbing and slashing is reminding me of Mom and her victims. For once, I’m okay with the similarities. For once, I hold onto her craziness for strength. Sometimes, I just have to let go and let my inner Mom out.

I slash repeatedly like a madwoman.

He finally loosens his grip on me.

I kick away as fast as I can. I wasn’t bluffing about the sharks.

The knife makes swimming harder but I keep it in my hand until I’m out of reach of the bleeding angel. Then, I stash it again in my nylon band.

I’m so worked up that it takes a few strokes before I notice the freezing cold again. My breath mists in front of my face and my teeth chatter but I force myself to keep moving.