You’re in a rowboat on a lake. It’s summer, early morning, and you’re seasick.
The boat lurches, sways, and vomit dribbles down the front of your Little League uniform. You’ve got a game later. Grandpa’s settled on the other side of the boat, tackle box trapped between his knees. He glances over at you but says nothing. Grandpa, you whisper, and he doesn’t hear. His hair is black and slick with lakewater. You scoot over the boat, and with each step you make, the vessel wobbles beneath your bare feet. You grasp his hand—his hairy hands dwarf yours, and your stomach churns.
The lake extends forever.
The sun is hungry. A sweaty hat presses your hair down to your forehead—your world is salt and heat. Your grandfather turns to you and smiles; his teeth, you want to scream, there’s something wrong with his teeth. But you know… If you make a sound, the sky will surely swallow you whole.
The sun’s gone. The water is a sickly brown—nearly black, and Grandpa’s scowling. You try to focus on the rock of the boat. Your swimming trunks are plastered to your thighs. You brush your fingertips against its surface—it’s warm like bathwater—and your fingers swirl in a pool of nothing.
How easy it would be to fall in, to slip into its depths, to take a breath of that cool fluid, to sink beneath the surface. How swiftly the freshwater would turn your blood cold, your nails to claws, your skin to scales, your pupils to slits.
How different is water than air, really?
The boat sways beneath you—you’re going to be sick.
It’s a rowboat. You’re on a lake. It’s summer, early morning, and the sun has yet to peek out from behind the clouds. Grandpa’s face is tired and hoary. He won’t look at you. Weakened light sets the boat in a dull glow, and it makes his skin look like papier-mâche.
There’s something wrong with this boat. This place. Your hands… There’s hair growing over your knuckles, freckles mottling over your forearms.
You come to yourself in pieces: an ache roaring behind your eyes, your legs twisted beneath you, your head propped against a wet surface. Your mouth is sticky with something rancid, and your lips part. You’re on your side, so your left arm is asleep.
“Holy shit,” the hands say, and they feel like poison ivy on you. Every finger is too warm, like hot combs on your naked skin. Sweat douses you. “I was, like, six seconds from calling nine-one-one.”
You’re on a rowboat on a lake. It’s summer, early morning, and you’re…
The boat sways—your world tilts, and you’re seasick again. Grandpa, you choke, gagging. Another “holy shit” and you’re vomiting again. Everything’s wrong—this body, this floor. Those hands look like meat; those feet are not yours. There’s a hand behind your neck, and spittle runs down your chin. Your eyes won’t stay open. Not right, you want to say, something’s not right. You want to scream. There must be something in the room with you.
Someone.
The girl, her glossy tights against your fingers, her startled expression.
You remember now: she slapped your hand away.
You had it with you—Vitamin K—tucked away in the edge of your palm. You know how much it takes to make her yours. Two beers. One for you, one for her. An apology. All it takes is the slip of his hand.
It comes to you all at once, with your friend crouching above you.
The girl, where’s the girl…
Your friend frowns. “The black one? She left, like, forever ago, man.”
It’s like cold water down your back.
“Dude. Hey.”
That fucking girl—you remember her tilted head, her pinched lips… She gave you a look, a look you were ready to see wipe away in a haze of confusion. You wanted, you craved to see that wide mouth to slacken, those glittered eyelids to droop, those thighs to fall open...
And then nothing.
“Look, you’re seriously freaking me out, man. You passed out, like, cold. How much did you drink? Should I call someone?”
She... you start. She must’ve...
“What?”
There’s something lurking in the water. You can’t get up; your head is too heavy. Grandpa scoops both hands beneath your armpits and lifts you up, and your head dips down to your chest—you can see it—its pale form beneath the water, rippling underneath you. The water slows, the ripples dying into a liquid calm, until finally the horrors beneath become visible: sunburnt cheeks, brown eyes, five wiggling fingers.
You recoil.