Page 11 of Waters that Drown Us

My vision fades in and out as I stare at that little green notebook. It was her favorite color. Seafoam green.

She loved the sea. She would sit and watch it all day. The East Sea. Not the Pacific Ocean, but close.

She would look at the same water I sail on. On the other side of the world.

The notebook is empty now. I had to. He couldn’t find her words. But they live inside my mind. I memorized each and every one before I dropped the pages in the sea.

Sometimes I open it. I run my fingers over the first page. It has the indents…from what she wrote…her hand was there…

-

Fuck.I’m alive.

The alarm clock on the floor next to my overpriced pawn shop futon blares loudly. My head is pounding, and my mouth feels filled with cotton. Every single muscle in my body protests as I roll over and silence the alarm, screaming with the need to recuperate.

But unfortunately, I don’t have that option.

In my state of the art kitchen, consisting of a sink, a mini fridge, a hot plate, and a microwave that saw the fall of the Berlin Wall, I make my customary breakfast of a microwaved burrito and water from the tap. It will have to tide me over until Emily and I get back to shore, because I’ve run out of anything appropriate to bring on the boat. Another trip to the discount store is necessary.

Before I get in the shower and steel myself for another day of Emily’s questions, I slide open the bottom drawer of my dresser and fish the vials of venom out of the pocket of my only pair of jeans. They clink and clatter in my palm, the liquid viscous, yellow, and nauseating. I run my tongue over my teeth nervously as I shove the vials back in the pocket.

There’s no point in washing my hair, it’ll just get ruined as soon as we’re on the boat, but I scrub myself and force myselfto keep down my breakfast. I cannot throw up again. I will not survive this day if I have no food in my body.

Emily is inquisitive. Makes sense, being a researcher and all, but it’s very new to me. My father never asked, he only demanded. He didn’t inquire about my interests, because he believed he chose them for me. Ilya was similar, though less charismatic about it. He saw me for what I was—a tool to get closer to my father’s empire. He never asked me questions, but his demands were less vocal. Never a spoken direction to stand here, talk to this person, go to my room, learn this piece on the piano, stop crying, don’t talk about my mother. Rather, a hand, too harsh, on my lower back or around my elbow. A flicker in his eyes that I understood inherently as my cue to move or leave or smile.

Since my escape, I’ve kept to abandoned towns or massive cities, both venues where people leave you alone if you don’t seem too friendly. In most towns, I’ve been able to pay cash to thrift and pawn shops, and provide vague answers and under the table rent to sketchy roommates.

Emily isn’t like that. She wants to know everything, possibly everythingabout everything. She asks me about my childhood in the same tone that she used while muttering over the little robot’s cord when the image on the monitor went out. Like the world is a book of things she hasn’t read yet, about to be cracked open just for her.

I don’t feel bad lying to her. She doesn’t know me, doesn’t care. She’s as entertained by my half truths and fabricated stories as she would be by reality. And honestly, it’s been surprisingly nice to give even the smallest parts of myself to someone. One day soon, when I’m dead or have become an irredeemable killer, a sliver of me will live on in the memory of this pretty genius who is afraid of the water she works on. There’s some comfort in that, which I didn’t expect.

When the shower runs cold, far too soon for my liking, I dry myself and slather a ridiculous amount of sunscreen onto my naked body, even the parts of me that will be covered by clothes. The sky may be overcast here most of the day, but the sun is sneaky, and I learned the hard way that my skin does not fare well in such conditions.

I wish that I could crawl back into bed and sleep off the effects of my misadventure last night, but I pull on my cleanest pair of shorts, a tee shirt, and a ball cap before grabbing the keys to Jimmy’s boat.At least it's not like the first time, I remind myself. I’ve built up a good, if imperfect, tolerance by now. Eight months ago, a too-strong dose left me in bed for a week.

The bike ride to the dock isn’t long, but it is peaceful, and it gives me the opportunity to think about the webs I’ll spin for Emily today. I can be anyone with her. I can tell as much or as little of the truth as I want, and it means nothing out on the water.

The woman herself is standing at the mouth of the dock as I ride up, arms laden with her heavy gear as usual. I had offered to help her carry it off the boat yesterday when we returned to shore, but when I tried to lift the smallest of the cases, I realized I was out of my depth. If the muscles didn’t give it away, her ability to carry all that equipment with a smile on her face certainly illuminated how strong she is.

I try not to stare at her smile as I lock my bike behind the ticket booth and make my way toward her. She’s effortlessly pretty, in a way that’s almost annoying. Somehow her strong body—lean and broad and tall—is perfectly complimented by her long eyelashes and swishy hair. I have to stop myself from trying to flick my salt-ridden ponytail over my shoulder in jealousy.

I have come to terms with the fact that she’s attractive, thatI’mattracted to her. But the acknowledgement still makes me feel guilty, like I’m cheating on the fiancé I never loved andfaked my death to escape. Something inside still fears my father finding out I wanted something. Wantedanything.

He decided what was best for me. He knew the right dress, the right age to wear makeup, the right classes and languages and instruments, the right husband. Wanting was tantamount to treason in his eyes.

But wanting anotherperson? Choosing love instead of creating it with the match he’d found for me? In my teenage years, I couldn't imagine a more significant way to betray my family.

But I suppose we're long past that. Faking your death and escaping to America trumps a Romeo and Juliet situation by a mile.

“Last day this week!” Emily exclaims cheerfully as she matches my stride toward the boat, her movements animated and jumpy. I suppose this is slightly better than the frozen fear from the last two days.

“I feel like you’re overcompensating,” I mutter, my voice cracking painfully with the memory of bile. I swallow hard against the feeling of microwaved eggs and cheese climbing up my throat.

“I am surviving,” she replies with a little more bite, which almost makes me want to smile. She’s throwing my words from Tuesday back at me, and I kind of like it. “Also, you look like hell.”

I like that significantly less.

IknowI look like hell. But the genius bodybuilder supermodel doesn’t have to throw it in my face.