The Siren Song by Wils Hosken
Jordan wishes to prove his masculinity by hiring a sailing boat, and discovers something unexpected about himself.
"Yeah mom, I'm only renting the boat for a few days," Jordan said into the phone.
The thick sea air met with the slap of his shoes on the wooden boards of the dock. Gulls perched themselves above, their cacophonous cackling calls confirming his entry. The skies were clear - no clouds, no blemishes. The only real danger came from the milquetoast design of Jordan's plain collared shirt and shorts, perfectly colored to scream beach like a wailing babe alongside his sandals. He wore a pair of generic khakis, ruined by a bright blue coloration and a pink - pardon, salmon - colored shirt. The only thing worse was his hair; flopped to one side that would have been dashing on someone more fit, or more interesting. But as it was, it made him suitably unique in his forgettability. The suitcase trailed behind him, its wheels groaning and thunking against the boards of the docks below him. And the sunglasses, don't forget the sunglasses. He was a stark contrast from the pier he stepped towards, and indeed, so was his conversation.
"I'll be fine. There's no storms on the horizon. I've got my compass and my phone; I'm not even going that far offshore."
He arrived at the propped-up hut for boat rentals, recognizable by the peeling paint, the smell of seaweed, and the day-old bait wriggling inside the glass container at the front. A can marked for tips indicated that technically there was someone manning it, whereas the emptiness of it revealed the quality of the experience talking with the person. That, and perhaps the thick boots occupying the whole of the window, which retreated backwards only when it was clear that Jordan was standing directly in front of the stand.
"Mom... Mom... This is a rite of passage. This is what men do. We go on boats. We drink beer. You're not talking me out of this. I need to go out there to be a man. I want to prove this to myself."
Jordan continued to talk even after the clerk creaked forward in her cheap plastic chair to look at him. She resembled a raisin stretched like laffy taffy over what might have once been a skull, with a black flat cap shoved down upon her head like a hydraulic press. Her face, or rather the approximation of a face hidden underneath the scowl she had emblazoned on her at all times, did well to betray her irritation at his phone conversation.
"Ok... bye. Love you. Ok bye. Bye!" Jordan hung up the phone, pocketing it. He looked at the clerk anxiously, then straightened himself to look more impressive.
"That's uh... just the girlfriend."
He was a bad liar.
The clerk did not care.
"She's worried about me, you know. But uh... I'm not worried, you know. Men aren't so high strung about these things." He cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. He checked if the clerk was looking impressed. The clerk's eyes didn't so much as twitch.
"Ain't pink a girl's color?" The clerk asked, to which Jordan snapped back, offended.
"This is salmon!"
"Uh huh..."
Jordan corrected his own tone, then asked in a deeper, more imposing voice, "I'd like to rent one of your single person sailboats."
"License and ID." The clerk recited, hoping that such a request would stop Jordan dead in his tracks. Unfortunately, Jordan came prepared, reaching into his leather wallet and offering up both the boating license he had diligently worked on over the past few months, and his ID. The clerk flipped them over, double checking the age, then handed them back. She looked him up and down, eying the young man. He lacked the tangible notes of middle-aged dissatisfaction that often came with a need to prove oneself out on a boat.
"You're a little young to be sailing alone, aren't you?" The clerk asked, and then added, "Especially, what was it, a few days? No one to watch out for you?"
"I'm hoping the time out at sea will invigorate me."
"Little young for a midlife crisis." The clerk stated, then began to flip through the various keys and rental vehicles available, something easy for a beginner so the kid didn't careen into a lawsuit.
"It's never too early or too late to try to find yourself out on the great big blue. Ernest Hemingway said that." Jordan insisted, checking once more if she was impressed.
Ernest Hemingway did not say that.
Jordan's mind wandered about and stopped to look inside the small clerk's hut. His eyes fell upon a manatee plush; battered and worn, sitting in a place of honor directly behind the ever-elegant plastic chair. "Fan of sea cows, I see. I hear they were mistaken for mermaids 'back in the day'."
The clerk hummed, taking a pair of keys out. She then manually scribed in a book on the table which boat was being rented, each number on the identification more banal than the last.
"It's silly to think they'd have such faulty information about beasts like that. We've really come far in our understanding of the world. I suppose the plush is to comfort the children?" Jordan proposed. He didn't know why he was trying to make conversation with this woman. Maybe he was hoping she'd be flustered, even at her age, even at her grotesqueness. Maybe he wanted someone to be impressed he was going out on this journey, instead of just worried. Maybe that would make him less worried as well.
The clerk set the keys down, not so much as granting him a polite chuckle. As Jordan's hand grasped them, he felt the clerk grab the top of his hand and lean in close.
"Listen and listen well. There are things worse than storms out at sea. The water... it sees your darkest dreams and worst nightmares and reflects them back at you. The beasts in it - they do more than just eat you. So, if you want to go on and dance your little dance out in the water, that's fine. But don't be so stupid as to tempt the sea. She will reach into you and tear out those parts of you that you try to run from and expose them to the world." The clerk said, and when she felt she had sufficiently traumatized the boy, she released him to snivel backwards, holding the keys like a comfort.
"Your boat is called Poseidon's Lover. Third row, bottom left." The clerk said, and typed something into an old register that clacked with each finger, "Total comes to $4000, plus tax for the week."
Jordan slowly nodded and reached into his pocket and took out his card. "Yes, of course. There should be plenty on my card..."
"We don't do credit." The clerk stated, and Jordan's frustration culminated in a single guttural:
"Oh mother f-"
Sea air ran through his hair, and the horizon shone over the vast lapping tide. The lick of salt and splashes of waves danced together with the hum of the motor as Jordan sailed out. This was true power. True mastery of the waves. He felt his skin dry from the salt and loved every second of it.
When at last he thought himself far enough, he stepped out and turned off the motor, before retreating down into his cabin, the captain's cabin. He stood proudly for a moment, then once he was done standing proudly, wasn't sure what to do anymore.
The interior was wooden, mixed with a painted white metal base. His bed, or bunk rather, was inset across from the kitchen stove, with chairs and a table making up the dining room. For the next week, he was the captain of this ship, this room, and the chips and hot dogs he had brought along as his only source of food.
On occasion, he would sit on the edge of the ship, staring out into the sea. Other times, he would stretch or perhaps he would eat more chips. But, for the most part, he resorted to just scrolling on his phone or playing mindless games. He wasn't sure when the manliness part was supposed to kick in, or the self-discovery. He just sat there mostly, waiting for the moment to hit him, waiting for the realization of aha! I am confident now, but it never came.
As day stretched into night, he brushed his teeth in the mirror, the gentle rocking of the boat causing one of the two towels he brought to sway gently behind him.
He spat and looked at himself.
He flexed.
He sagged.
He stared.
He forced his face not to upturn in disgust.
The face that nobody wanted.
Jordan stepped away and shuffled into the other part of the room, plopping down onto his bunk. He felt something in the bed, tucked under some of the covers. His hand reached down and found a thick magazine hidden away, shoved haphazardly and forgotten. An old magazine, 70s or so, depicting a woman without clothing. She was draped in deep black and white sheets that curled over her like the waves; her curves accentuated. The woman stared back at him. Jordan grimaced, disgusted to have found such a thing. The woman glared into him, daring him to throw her away. She looked at him with serenity and a certainty that made him uncomfortable, like she knew something he didn't. She once more dared him to throw her away, and Jordan tossed her into the small trash bin inside the kitchen, an arm's reach away.
Jordan shoved himself into the bed, covering himself with the blanket and trying to shut himself out of the world. He turned over, trying not to think of the roiling emotions boiling in his gut, the nauseating feeling that permeated his mind. Or maybe that was just the boat rocking back and forth, and sea sickness had found him. Sleep tried to find him, but it couldn't. His mind wandered too far away, the expression he had at himself, the expectations. His mother was worried sick. He knew that. She was worried he would be hurt, and he was worried he was hurting her. Jordan held no hate for her, only himself. He couldn't describe it. No matter how many diets, no matter how many fitness routines, he still was disgusted by that face in the mirror. Nobody wanted that, including him. Maybe he was creepy? Maybe that was it. He was just creepy or unlikable or gross, and then he could attribute it to something outside his blame. He didn't want to blame his mom, though. She had been through enough.
A hum rang outside the boat; a thrumming pulse of noise - quiet, like a signal. Jordan listened to it but didn't think much of it. It was odd; maybe the boat was getting settled. It was melodic. Soft. Swaying. It relaxed him, made him feel that little bit less restless. He fell into sleep to the sound of the distant humming, the saunter of the ocean looming towards him, truth unbroken.
The hum was gone when he awoke, the thick scent of the sea clouding his nose. The bright light of the sun pierced through into the cabin. He checked his phone. It was nine; he hadn't slept in as much as he had hoped, but maybe that was for the best. He could get a head start on finding out what to do. He stepped out of bed and fetched a bowl of dry cereal for himself for breakfast.
His pantry and food stores were made up of all young people's food: cereal, chips, microwavable meals, hot dogs - stuff he could easily cook without thought. He had brought a cookbook along, just in case he tried to get into cooking again, but as night fell, it overwhelmed like it always did. He once aspired for something else, to maybe get into baking or cooking, but gave up soon thereafter. He had given up on a lot of hobbies, a lot of things. Many had assumed he would give up on this sailing expedition, and there were times he thought he might. That he would fail anyway. Jordan was resenting the boat now for not fixing him, for just leaving him alone with his thoughts. As he tossed his disposable spoon into the trash bin, the magazine model's face looked back at him. Jordan was alone with this draped woman staring back at him from the garbage. Jordan snarled at it, and it didn't care. It continued its perpetual staring into him, judging him, confident against the storm of his wreckage. He reached in and pulled out the magazine, came up onto the deck, then ripped out the pages and tossed them overboard. That would teach her.
The woman's face floated there, still staring at him, but she was out there and he was in here. He finished breakfast on the other side of the boat, trying to ignore the magazine woman still watching him from the other side. It was such a distraction that he realized something: the shore was missing. Jordan checked the other side of his ship. The shore was gone there as well. He saw nothing but the vast horizon, the endless swashing of the sea below him. And the magazine woman, taunting him, mocking him for his stupidity. Surely, he had remembered to set the anchor down? Jordan checked around the front of the ship, a large metal anchor sitting comfortably on the deck, unused.
"Dammit!" Jordan shouted aloud to no one, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, checking for a signal. Nothing. The waves had sent him off course. God, what a mess. He tried to breathe in and out. It's fine. He couldn't be that far offshore. It was only one night, after all. He still had a compass, even. He could head back to shore whenever he liked.
He would go back as a laughing stock. No, he couldn't deal with that, coming back with his tail between his legs, dumping cash on a boat rental that he barely used. No. This was just part of his plan. That's what he would say: "Disconnecting from the mess of the world." "No internet, no mess, just the good outdoors." That's right. It was manly to be without signal in the middle of nowhere. It was strapping, a fine showmanship of manliness to survive on your own with nothing but your wits and wilderness. But he shouldn't be stupid. Jordan dropped the anchor down, hooking it into the deep below, then sat on the deck, thinking.
The magazine continued to taunt him. Somehow it hadn't floated nearly far enough away. The woman stared back at him with that same expression, that same confident unblemished certainty. It wasn't judging him now. He just felt... pitied. Apologetic. But Jordan didn't need her sympathy. He took an oar from below deck and used it to push the magazine away, sending it off into the waves, her face longing to find him. Jordan spent the rest of the day napping, and by the time it stretched into night, he was wide awake, staring up at the stars. Of course he wasn't actually staring. No, he was fidgeting. The vast impossibility of all the stars in the sky without the light to infect them, and he couldn't escape the nagging need to escape. No phone, no peace, nothing but his thoughts. It made him wander. It made him mad.
The humming began again, but this time he was awake for it. It was louder this time. It was directional. A ship maybe? The humming rose and fell, distantly moving through the waves. Jordan looked over towards the sound. Something was in the water; that was certain. He saw it moving about. A dolphin? Or a whale? It was dolphin sized, for certain. Amidst his sea of panic, the noise offered some compensation, some calm in the mess. He wanted to get closer, to see what it was, but he didn't want to scare whatever it was away. Jordan inhaled, and just... took in the air. The stars. The sea. The sound. The water crested up and down, following in the footsteps of the moon above, while the stars shone in the sky above and in the world below. He was but one ship, floating in a void, but a void filled with life unseen. His little white ship bound him to the space. At first, it seemed like a safety bubble, but more and more, it seemed like a prison, a closed box while the world lived on around him - the sea everlasting and forever. It was terrifying and uncertain, and in such a world of cluttered open air, who was he to deny its offering of openness. The sky could not lie. The water could not pretend. It was itself, and he was in a boat, dressing himself up as a captain. The world could be beautiful, when he let it be. He relaxed his shoulders and let it wash over him, his body soothed by the sound. Peace, far from the world. Was this why men came out to sea? To nature? To rest easy in the quiet? His thoughts were only that of what was before him, and it felt good.
Maybe he could bring it closer, tell the story to his mom and others. Yes, it was wonderful. He would brag all about hearing dolphins and feeding them hot dogs. He wasn't worried about food; he could sail back to shore if needed. Besides, how often would he get this chance? Jordan stepped down into the kitchen and took the small slick bag of cheap hot dogs from the fridge, then came back up and broke off a few bits before tossing them into the water. In the darkness of the water below, he could make out a few fish moving to investigate, before nibbling a little and swimming away. Jordan took out his phone and snapped a few pictures of them, chuckling to himself. The humming persisted but stayed right where it was. Maybe he would get a better chance to see it in the morning. Jordan fell asleep to the sound of the creature once more, its song soothing his anxieties. It would be fine, and he slept in his bunk. The swath of the swaying boat easing him into morning.
The hot dogs were still there the next day, aside from the wayward nibble of a few fish, which continued to take the odd bite of them. That was entertainment in itself, he supposed. If he were a fisherman, perhaps this trip would have made more sense. He tried to get into fishing, but it was just one of the many hobbies that went nowhere. Maybe he could find out what that humming was? With no signal, he took to the cabinets of the sailboat's cabin, searching for maybe a tour guide or a wildlife guide, and stumbled upon a thick encyclopedia. Ocean creatures A-Z. Reading it was better than anything else he had planned, so he propped himself up on the deck of the ship and began to read through it. Nothing about 'humming' per say, but plenty about whales and whale song, the clicking of dolphins. He had heard whale's song on recording before, the odd video on the internet, and he knew it was deep and sonorous. But this sounded lighter, more silken. Maybe it was just a younger whale? Or a different kind than the one he listened to. It made well enough sense that the hot dogs were uneaten. Whales don't eat those, at least not the ones in these waters. Though, how funny would it be if it was an orca? He chuckled at the thought of seeing Shamu without the conditions of Blackfish. What a charming thing.
The book occupied his time between food, bathroom breaks, and watching the fish. Time moved slowly; it forced him to look down at the waves, look down at himself. His reflection stared back at him, gradually becoming distorted by the water's tossing and turning. He didn't object to such a malformation. It made it less unbearable to look at himself. At least the fish didn't mind. He could take comfort in that. He snapped a few more pictures. Animals would rarely expose themselves like this, so maybe the whale was a blessing of some kind? He would find himself, the whale was the answer... somehow. It was a nice thought. He stayed up late to listen again, hoping to hear the song.
As day fell into night, he laid on the deck scrolling through his phone, looking at the pictures he took. All the little fish, eating away at the hot dogs. It was cute; sweet even. He continued to scroll back to the pictures from the night before, when... Jordan chuckled to himself. That's funny. Oh, that's really funny. He could swear, with the lighting of the boat, that he saw something deeper in the water in that picture. He could swear that, hiding in the picture, he could see a pair of eyes staring up at him from deep in the ocean, watching him. He double-checked. It must be the reflection of the light from the boat, or maybe his phone, because it didn't look like a seal or a dolphin. It must have been the light because, well...
He could swear it looked human.
Earlier this time, just as the sun had set, the humming came again. Louder. He could see the beast distantly moving through the waves; the full breadth of it hidden in the darkness. It was just this black shadow cresting through and ducking in and out of sight. But he could make out it was there. It was peaceful, and as he hung his feet over the side of the ship, his legs hooked over the railing; serenity found him again. Then, the humming stopped. Without warning.
Jordan looked back towards where the creature was and saw only the darkness of the sea and the waves crashing. He looked outwards, then sighed. The beast must have left, and as he pouted, the light of his ship illuminated something in the water. The magazine was still there, just below the surface, the iron gaze of the cover woman staring back at him. His disappointment turned into irritation. He couldn't escape the damn thing. How hadn't it dissipated by now? Or at least floated away or gotten eaten by crabs or something? Ugh.
Jordan grimaced, and once again fetched the oar from below deck, rummaging through all the stuff he had left brutally unorganized. Finally, under a stack of chip bags and clothes, he found the oar and took it back onto the deck of the ship. The magazine was still there in the water, still looking up at him in the same spot. Jordan scoffed and extended the oar downwards over the side of the ship. It was a little too deep in the waves. He leaned over the side further; his stomach pressed against the metal railings of the deck, to push the magazine away. His back was in far too much pain for his age, but he had to lean against the rail nonetheless. Why won't it just float away or something? The cover woman's face just stared back at him. The oar made contact with the face and the face didn't budge.
In a flash of movement, a hand launched upwards and grabbed the oar. Jordan was yanked out of the boat and into the water. He yelped with terror as the salt water hit his mouth. Jordan slammed through the waves and felt himself being pulled by the oar deeper and deeper. The humming roared into a song that blocked out all other noise, a sticky sweet lure that forced his body to relax, but his mind knew differently. He looked back, the sting of the ocean and the rush of force compressing his lungs as he saw the woman from the magazine cover staring back at him, pulling him downwards. The black and white linens from the cover pulsed outwards and compressed, opening and closing like an octopus to launch them both down into the dark. Her eyes stared back at him once more, unbreaking in their gaze.
Jordan released the oar and swam upwards, back to the boat. He rose into fresh air, gasping and coughing, burping with a burn as his body tried to find any way to breathe. The moment he could take in air again was the moment he felt his leg grabbed by the softest hands in the world. He was dragged below again. Jordan saw the eyes of the woman staring back at him, her expression unchanging, serene in their beauty, resolute in their purpose. He kicked at her hand, his legs slow and stifled by the water around him. The silks that draped her began to open up around him, coiling around his body like a massive sheet to swallow him. He kicked and kicked and kicked again, trying to swim upwards. He was wasting energy in his flailing. It wasn't until the oar floated into view that he stood any chance of survival. Jordan reached out for it, his hand passing through the silken sheets as they sought to swaddle him in a final embrace.
A surge of pain ran through his arm as he touched the edges of the silks. His veins were on fire. The stinging sensation that followed wasn't pleasant, but as he grasped the oar, his adrenaline drove high enough to smack the hand backwards and off his leg. He swam upwards once more for air, frantically clawing his way back up onto the ship. His heart pounded; his eyes scorched. He spat up water as air once again found him. Then the pain of his arm hit once more as he laid there on the deck, clutching at his skin as a feeling of something crawling underneath it struck him. Nothing seemed outwardly wrong with it, but he felt it. He clutched at the sting of whatever was down there. Jordan moved to the helm of the ship, starting the motor to get away from here, escape from whatever this was.
The ship started, and within moments of it launching forward, he felt the heavy tug of the anchor behind him. Jordan stepped away from the helm and began to pull up the anchor, only for something to pull back on the other side, threatening to pull him in again. Jordan tumbled forward from the pull, landing on his stung arm. Pain ran through him again, and as the chain slid past him, clattering towards the waves, Jordan grabbed it once more. He hooked his other arm around one of the railings and pulled, slowly dragging the chain upwards once more as it went taut. Down in the dark waters it pulled on the anchor again, causing Jordan to buckle against the force and release the anchor. He watched the chain get dragged along, running its entire length before stopping, swaying, then locking in place. Down below, the anchor had been tied to a rock, knotted and locked in place. No more running.
He sat up on the deck. Panting. Shaking. Then looked. Listening. Waiting. The humming began again, clearer now. He heard a song intermingled with it. An omen. A promise. The notes seemed familiar, the voice seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. He knew he was too far from the shore; he knew he was in the domain of something buried deep down that no longer wanted to be ignored. Jordan shuffled back along, and stepped back into the cabin, drying himself off. More so padding away at himself as he sat looking at the bathroom mirror, shaken at what he had seen in the water looking back at him. His arm still stung. He looked down at it, a dull irritation running through it. But every time he scratched it, a surge of stinging pain ran through him.
Jordan stumbled over to his bunk, too exhausted to think, yet too wired to sleep. The humming did nothing to aid his sleep, as he lay there until morning came. When the sun rose, the noise finally stopped. Sleep found him briefly, and with that small bout of rest, he rose once again to look out over the sea. There was a person out here, a person with the face of that woman in the magazine. No. This was something else. Something worse. He looked at his arm. It still itched, and reflexively, he began to scratch at it. It didn't hurt anymore; it just itched like hell. He scratched and scratched at it, offhandedly, while he set about finding something to fend off the creature.
He took a butter knife from the kitchen and tied it to one of the oars, hoping that it might scare the creature off. Jordan was pretty sure this wouldn't work. He was pretty sure of a lot of things, but recently, he had begun doubting his impressions of the world. He swore to himself as the itching persisted, then fetched a first aid kit from below. The itch continued to burn into him, driving him mad. Jordan began to search through the kit, trying to find something for treating jellyfish stings. He couldn't think of any other comparison. It had stung him; it had silk tendrils. A jellyfish was the closest he could approximate, right? He found a set of cream, and detailed instructions he immediately ignored as he began to slather the cream on his entire arm. It was cold and slimy, but he hoped that as it settled in, the itching would stop. He scratched all the same.
He stumbled back onto the deck, his gait an oxymoron of restlessness and exhaustion. Jordan sat there with his homemade spear, staring at the water, his distorted reflection looking back at him. He waited and waited. A day of waiting. He didn't dare look away. This was the masculine thing to do, after all. To kill it. To conquer nature in all her forms, to kill and kill and rule and win. That's what men do. This was what he had to do. God, he sounded like such a monster right now, but he didn't want whatever that was to kill him. That's what it wanted, right? In the stories about sirens or mermaids or whatever? That's why it took the magazine lady's face. To taunt him, to lure him in, to drown him? He kept watch, and he laid there on the deck when night fell again. Sleep caught him as he laid there, with his spear in hand and the waves rocking him gently to sleep, his hand hanging over the side.
A hand rose up from the water to meet his, her fingertips touching his, softly caressing them. She reached up and coiled fingers through his, then began to slowly pull as he was unconscious. As he was slowly dragged towards the side in the midst of slumber, his body pressed against the metal railing. The cold of the metal shot him awake and he pulled away from the hand. He scrambled to wake up. Jordan looked out over the water, taking his spear and pointing it towards the deep. Nothing was there, nothing but that lingering sensation of her hands gently holding his. The distraction burned into his mind, and it only got worse as he heard the humming, the song. The song was more pronounced now, more audible. It rang, echoing through the ocean. Its sweetness a lie. A deceit. It was trying to trick him still, trying to hurt him. He wouldn't let it hurt him. He scratched at his arm with each anxious breath, hairs falling off as he absentmindedly scraped at the limb. He readied the oar, looking for the creature, readying himself for wherever it was hiding.
The song persisted. Echoing. Slithering into every corner of his fortress, trying to reach his mind. It rose in noise, in tempo, surging and cresting downwards. Jordan reached up, dropping his weapon as the noise rose, the sound in his ears silencing all else. He covered them, but the noise still got through. He stumbled backwards, trying to retreat to the cabin. He searched the kitchen to look for cotton, wax, anything to cover his ears, and found only his pillow in the bed across from him. He squished it down over the sides of his head, trying to ignore the noise. The worst part was that he liked the song. It soothed him. It made him feel safe, wanted. It made him feel loved, and that's why he was scared of it. That's why he hated it. Jordan shouted, trying to silence the song that rattled the ship, the inexorable.
Then, it stopped. The deafening song stopped. Jordan took a breath, trying to recover, to breathe, and think.
Amidst the ringing in his ears, he could make out another sound. A splash, then the pat...pat... pat of footsteps. The beast was on the ship. He couldn't make it to his weapon in time. He rushed to the front of the cabin, the open door betraying the woman coming around the side.
Long silken robes slithered and twisted around the corner, dragging the rest of the beautiful form closer. Her footsteps delicately stepped around to try to enter the cabin, but Jordan was faster. He slammed the cabin door closed, only for the door to be caught by her hand, pushing back against him. Her eyes stared at him from the crack in the door, the same eyes from the magazine that had watched him fumble and pitied him. Her gaze persisted, everlasting. Why couldn't he escape it? He tried to close the door again, slamming against her fingers, but she endured. Rage and frustration and terror boiled within him as he tried again and again, but the moment caught him nonetheless. He heard her speak in his mind, in his voice, perhaps the only voice she knew:
"Why do you hate me?"
Jordan yelled at her, just trying to make the noise stop before bringing the door onto her fingers again. She retreated without a sound and the crack closed, leaving Jordan alone in the cabin. He didn't hear her walk away from the door. She just stood there, waiting. He shivered, holding the door closed as he put his hand against it, then slid down, blocking it with his back. He heard shuffling on the other side, and a thud. She was resting on the door, waiting for him to let her inside. He could feel her eyes staring against him; the embrace of her touch pressing against his hand from the other side of the door. But he wouldn't let her in. He couldn't let her in. Jordan stayed there until the morning came, when the humming started up again, and he heard her step off the boat, and the splash of her reentering the water.
...Why did it have to speak? Everything about this was dangerous, everything in Jordan's core said that this thing was trying to hurt him, but then the song, then the way it spoke, like it was hurt. He scratched at his arm to remind himself of what it wanted. It was trying to manipulate him, he knew that. That's why it used his voice, it must not have a voice of its own. Yes, that was it. It has no voice, no face. An abomination. A mimic, trying to replicate what it sees to lure him in, to drag him below, tricking him! Then again, if it was trying to trick him, why did it ask that question so much like a person would? It was hurt, not physically, but emotionally. No! It was inhuman, a monster echoing everything around it. But it was also human, echoing emotions in turn. Why would it do this to him? Where did it get that pain?
Jordan tried to force himself to sleep, but his body rejected him. It writhed at the emotions inside him. The scratching at his mind only worsened, and the itch along his arm only intensified. Tears and anguish vomited out of his body. Guilt haunted him, and the itch only amplified it. Pained crying ran through his body, and Jordan, though strong of will, couldn't contest it. It felt like his heart was rotting away, his soul being torn apart. What horrors of the deep could overwhelm a man's soul, the yearning and anguish that devours? This woman was just a figment, surely, but in this world of fallacies and falsifications, what difference was a figment to the real? It hurt all the same. Jordan ached with this feeling in his body. The betrayal in her eyes. The desire for want, to be wanted. To be more than his shell. As he laid there, shivering and writhing and scratching, he looked upon his arm and saw the blood trailing from it.
Jordan turned on a light, looking closer at his arm. His skin was carved by self-inflicted scratching, peeling away. His nails had cut into him like a dull knife, which made the pain all the worse. But, through the tears, he saw something inside of him. His arm was bloated, oversized, like it had become a cocoon for something growing along his bones underneath. Curiosity and horror overtook him as he looked at it, then felt along the scratches to a flap in his own skin. He lifted the lip, peeling away a layer of necrotic flesh to reveal what was beneath. A euphoria ran through him, an involuntary relief, like he had peeled off a wound. There he saw another person's arm connected to his body, having grown onto his bones and muscle to replace his original arm. Its skin now acting as his skin, with his old flesh left to peel away in a grotesque degloving along his entire arm. A gooping liquid occupied the space between the two layers of flesh. Its texture was that of embryonic fluid, a sticky sweetness that poisoned the air and was unfamiliar to Jordan, but spoke of a deeper transmogrification on the horizon. He could control it as if it were his own, but the venom had transformed part of him, as had the terror of what it was doing: who would I become if I let it take me? He closed the lip of skin, but his eyes couldn't forget the sight.
Sleep put him out of his misery, so the exhaustion of his emotions did not sunder him further.
He woke, staring at the ceiling of his cabin; his eyes tattered with exhaustion, his demeanor eaten by guilt. His hand rested on his arm, holding it, his fingertips feeling the skin underneath, the softness of it. It felt reassuring, and he hated himself for thinking that. The intoxicating euphoria that had come with peeling away the flesh infected his body and his mind. That betrayal he felt within him, was it his, or hers, or were they the same? Perhaps that's what did in Odysseus' men when they faced the sirens; not the longing, but the guilt that they would betray something that loved them for not joining them to die on the rocks. Or maybe, Jordan was just losing himself - not that there was much to lose to begin with. He had no hobbies to keep, no friends on this trip with him; the only one in his life was his mother, and even then... maybe the only reason he was fighting his fate was to stop her misery. How poorly his inevitability would hurt her, because all she had - all they had - was each other. But he couldn't keep living with this feeling. Would succumbing be the death of that bond? Or would it just be death?
Night came. He didn't even notice, despite it feeling like hours, despite having sat there with nary food nor drink, just staring up at the ceiling as the infection slithered further up to his shoulder. Was this to be his fate? His end? Then he might as well grow the courage to face it.
Jordan climbed up onto the deck, sitting down to face out over the water. He waited. Maybe it wouldn't hurt just to try to speak to her. Just to apologize. Just to ask questions. Why was he apologizing? She was trying to change him. She was trying to take away something from him; why was he apologizing to her? Maybe he just wanted to know what this was, what that guilt was, what the venom was, and why it was doing this. He couldn't dwell. But he was forced there with his thoughts. He had tricked himself onto a boat of isolation, and when locked in the dark, he had found a door that opened up to a place sealed away. He just waited as the humming came... no more fighting back, no more running, just... looking at her dead in the face and hoping that he could meet her gaze.
The silks slithered aboard and pulled her onto the ship; her feet delicately stepping onto the deck like an angel descending from heaven above. Her song rang around her, not even from her mouth, but humming from gills hidden in the cracks and weaves in her form, vibrating like strings on an instrument. She stared at him, her face level with his, no different than his reflection in the water. Was she waiting for something? Or was he waiting for her to do something? Jordan sat. He showed her his arm, trying to express his confusion and horror. He began to peel more of the skin away, revealing the other arm inside, the thing that couldn't escape his mind. The euphoria came again as he peeled back to reveal the flesh inside. A wet slap as the necrotic husk of skin fell to the ground. The humming came to a close, and she spoke, once more with his voice. Now he could hear the changes. It was through her, but it was his voice, an impression.
"It hurts... doesn't it?"
Jordan said nothing, but the acknowledgement could be felt in his expression, his exhaustion. He shivered in place.
"I can make it go away."
"No... no you can't... because you're the source of all this pain." Jordan said, not angry, just sad. "You made me into something else..."
"It's your arm."
"I don't know what this is."
"Metamorphosis."
"It's not what I was supposed to be. I didn't come out here to change into something I'm not."
She shook her head, then assured him, "Yes you did."
She gestured outwards to the ocean using one of the tentacles, the ribbons trailing outwards. "You. You wanted to prove your bravado to yourself, desperate for the approval of everyone you meet. You came here to prove to yourself you were something you weren't. But I see right through you."
She didn't show any change in expression. Jordan bowed his head, unable to keep her gaze. She continued to speak.
"I won't leave."
"I know..." Jordan buried his head in his hands, then felt the silks move forward and coil around his palms, offering their softness so he had some comfort. He shook his head, then scolded himself internally for saying what he was about to say. "You're not real..."
"I am; that's why it hurts so much. You came here to find the truth. You found it, sunken down in the waters you forgot."
"You're going to drown me." Jordan insisted, and the guilt ran through his body. He continued to scratch at his arm.
"You must not know your stories. Sirens drown sailors. Sirens drown men."
Oh. Jordan understood now. That only made it hurt worse. His body and mind were aligned; he understood exactly what was going on. He had come here to find the truth. He had come to find himself... but why did it hurt so bad? He looked up at her, proclaiming, "I'm terrified of you."
"Why?"
"Because even if I was honest, I'd never be you. I'd never be beautiful or wanted or loved like you."
"No, but you'd be you. Which is more than you've been."
All this insistence, all these ideas about what he had tried to force himself to be, to force himself to do, and here he was, unable to escape the song, the anguish, the truth: her. The siren song lingered forevermore, in every corner of the vast ocean of the world. He was so confined to his box, his little ship, that he didn't know the ocean below, and everything within.
"I can't."
"It hurts too much not to."
"I can keep hurting a little while longer. Long enough to pretend. Long enough so everyone is happy." Jordan insisted, then added, "I'm good at that."
"Why do you hate us so much that you would do that?"
Jordan shook his head, then confessed, tears in his eyes, "I... I don't know. Because I'm not... not..."
The silks coiled around his entire frame, and the woman stepped forward, embracing him. Jordan embraced her back, staring outwards because he still couldn't bear to face her. He thought of his mother. If this was an invitation, if this was tossing everything away to leave the world behind and step into the wide ocean, then she would be alone in the world.
"I can't tell her. It would break her heart."
"No, it wouldn't."
"I couldn't go back."
"There's never any going back, for any decision. You must learn... or the song will go on and on, haunting you until you are naught more than a voice in the wind."
"Will I still be me?"
"More than ever."
Jordan sighed, pressing his face downward against her shoulder. He cried into her shoulder, shaking his head. She felt like a sponge, soaking up the tears.
"I can't leave her behind. I'm all she has."
This gave the creature pause. She seemed to think, if she was even capable of that. Jordan didn't know if she was thinking, or just reflecting his thoughts, letting them manifest against the organism. Or was she a force of nature, no different than a storm coming in? Maybe she was thinking, maybe she was mourning, or maybe she was just patient.
"... I am no god. My invitation is not conditional. We will find each other again. In whatever life waits for you." She let the silk tendrils scrape along his face and his body, with shocks of venom creeping in. Jordan just stayed there in the embrace as the shocks ran along him, causing his skin to flake and peel. He sat there, hugging her, until the sun came back up. He felt her melt in his arms, the image of her at the very least, fading into nothing but sea foam in his hands, before trailing off into the ocean below. The woman was gone, leaving him with nothing but his reflection in the waters below.
He stepped back into the cabin of the boat. Was it done?
Now what?
He stepped back below the deck. He sat for a moment, trying to absorb what had happened, and then with little else coming to mind, he spent the rest of the day just doing normal things, trying to calm himself. He ate some breakfast. He laid down for a nap. He read through the book of sea animals yet again. He continued to scratch at his arm, gradually peeling away at more and more of it until the hand underneath came into view.
It was hers. Or it would be.
As he spat up another glob of toothpaste into the sink, he saw her staring back at him from the mirror. He took a step back in shock, holding his chest. The walls around the mirror began to melt into the mirror itself, like the glass was water leaking into the world around them. He felt dizzy, the venom causing him to scratch his arm. Then, without a word, her hand reached out to him from the mirror. An offering, should he choose to take it. A mercy; the power to wield the song as he saw fit. The power of metamorphosis. He stood there, contemplating it, and he took a deep breath. He reached out with his encased hand, and her fingertips reached up and around the lip of that necrotic flesh, peeling it backwards and down. The entirety of the rotten husk was degloved from his arm, the skin ripping off and splattering to the ground below. Jordan looked at his hand, moving her fingers, euphoria taking him to an ecstatic high that chased him to the ends of himself. Her hand extended once more from the mirror. Reflexively, he took it.
He was pulled into the mirror, a splash of water from the reflection spraying outwards and splattering along the outside of the cabin. He dove into the pool of the vast deep, the light of the ship fading away behind him. His cabin with its half-forgotten bag of chips shrinking until it was naught but a memory. It was murky, messy and dark. The sound of distant whale calls and forlorn schools met only by the pressure that ran along his frame. He swam in that vast ocean, letting the pressure release him. He couldn't see them, but he could feel them. Hands. Those same silken tendrils, swimming past him, running their hands along his body. The venom scraped along his flesh. He felt his limbs molting, peeling away to scales, glimmering in the light. He felt his eyes adapt to the deep, an invitation to the cosmic transmutation; not rejected, not horrible or mutated, but beautiful. He saw jellyfish, dancing up above, lost in the tide. Coral coming to light, formed into figures locked in an embrace. Sand structures crested upwards into volcanic vents that warmed schools of fish that trailed up and around. Rich forests of life and shining brilliance, murals of color in impossibly massive displays of inconceivable geometry. The eldritch. The unknown. The incomprehensible terror of one's self and beyond, that so many hid from, was not horror. It was welcoming, because it was a breadth beyond his little boat and his little, close-minded world.
The outer shell of what he used to be continued to scrape away until he was nothing but another denizen of the vast deep. It didn't erase him, but it did change him. It changed him into something that would silence that thought in his mind; that would quiet the song. He was himself now; the mask, the skin he had worn for all the others was shed. In the vast deep, he sang the song himself in celebration. It was different. But maybe it was better this way. Maybe she was better this way.
Jordan stepped down onto the dock, bags trailing over the boards yet again; same shirt, same pants, but a smile instead of an insistent frown. The boat was returned on time, no scratches, no changes, no memory of the horrors that befell. But Jordan remembered. She walked with the confidence of someone who remembered herself, who remembered the hidden truths at the core of her being. The clerk looked, and saw, then gave a nod of acknowledgement, and went back to her business. It wasn't until Jordan steeled herself to take out her phone and make a call that the change really sunk in. The deep did not scare her nearly as much as the things above, and the fears that came with the known. She went through her contacts, and called:
"Hey, Mom, I have something to tell you."
 |
| Image generated with OpenAI |
The thick sea air met with the slap of his shoes on the wooden boards of the dock. Gulls perched themselves above, their cacophonous cackling calls confirming his entry. The skies were clear - no clouds, no blemishes. The only real danger came from the milquetoast design of Jordan's plain collared shirt and shorts, perfectly colored to scream beach like a wailing babe alongside his sandals. He wore a pair of generic khakis, ruined by a bright blue coloration and a pink - pardon, salmon - colored shirt. The only thing worse was his hair; flopped to one side that would have been dashing on someone more fit, or more interesting. But as it was, it made him suitably unique in his forgettability. The suitcase trailed behind him, its wheels groaning and thunking against the boards of the docks below him. And the sunglasses, don't forget the sunglasses. He was a stark contrast from the pier he stepped towards, and indeed, so was his conversation.
"I'll be fine. There's no storms on the horizon. I've got my compass and my phone; I'm not even going that far offshore."
He arrived at the propped-up hut for boat rentals, recognizable by the peeling paint, the smell of seaweed, and the day-old bait wriggling inside the glass container at the front. A can marked for tips indicated that technically there was someone manning it, whereas the emptiness of it revealed the quality of the experience talking with the person. That, and perhaps the thick boots occupying the whole of the window, which retreated backwards only when it was clear that Jordan was standing directly in front of the stand.
"Mom... Mom... This is a rite of passage. This is what men do. We go on boats. We drink beer. You're not talking me out of this. I need to go out there to be a man. I want to prove this to myself."
Jordan continued to talk even after the clerk creaked forward in her cheap plastic chair to look at him. She resembled a raisin stretched like laffy taffy over what might have once been a skull, with a black flat cap shoved down upon her head like a hydraulic press. Her face, or rather the approximation of a face hidden underneath the scowl she had emblazoned on her at all times, did well to betray her irritation at his phone conversation.
"Ok... bye. Love you. Ok bye. Bye!" Jordan hung up the phone, pocketing it. He looked at the clerk anxiously, then straightened himself to look more impressive.
"That's uh... just the girlfriend."
He was a bad liar.
The clerk did not care.
"She's worried about me, you know. But uh... I'm not worried, you know. Men aren't so high strung about these things." He cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. He checked if the clerk was looking impressed. The clerk's eyes didn't so much as twitch.
"Ain't pink a girl's color?" The clerk asked, to which Jordan snapped back, offended.
"This is salmon!"
"Uh huh..."
Jordan corrected his own tone, then asked in a deeper, more imposing voice, "I'd like to rent one of your single person sailboats."
"License and ID." The clerk recited, hoping that such a request would stop Jordan dead in his tracks. Unfortunately, Jordan came prepared, reaching into his leather wallet and offering up both the boating license he had diligently worked on over the past few months, and his ID. The clerk flipped them over, double checking the age, then handed them back. She looked him up and down, eying the young man. He lacked the tangible notes of middle-aged dissatisfaction that often came with a need to prove oneself out on a boat.
"You're a little young to be sailing alone, aren't you?" The clerk asked, and then added, "Especially, what was it, a few days? No one to watch out for you?"
"I'm hoping the time out at sea will invigorate me."
"Little young for a midlife crisis." The clerk stated, then began to flip through the various keys and rental vehicles available, something easy for a beginner so the kid didn't careen into a lawsuit.
"It's never too early or too late to try to find yourself out on the great big blue. Ernest Hemingway said that." Jordan insisted, checking once more if she was impressed.
Ernest Hemingway did not say that.
Jordan's mind wandered about and stopped to look inside the small clerk's hut. His eyes fell upon a manatee plush; battered and worn, sitting in a place of honor directly behind the ever-elegant plastic chair. "Fan of sea cows, I see. I hear they were mistaken for mermaids 'back in the day'."
The clerk hummed, taking a pair of keys out. She then manually scribed in a book on the table which boat was being rented, each number on the identification more banal than the last.
"It's silly to think they'd have such faulty information about beasts like that. We've really come far in our understanding of the world. I suppose the plush is to comfort the children?" Jordan proposed. He didn't know why he was trying to make conversation with this woman. Maybe he was hoping she'd be flustered, even at her age, even at her grotesqueness. Maybe he wanted someone to be impressed he was going out on this journey, instead of just worried. Maybe that would make him less worried as well.
The clerk set the keys down, not so much as granting him a polite chuckle. As Jordan's hand grasped them, he felt the clerk grab the top of his hand and lean in close.
"Listen and listen well. There are things worse than storms out at sea. The water... it sees your darkest dreams and worst nightmares and reflects them back at you. The beasts in it - they do more than just eat you. So, if you want to go on and dance your little dance out in the water, that's fine. But don't be so stupid as to tempt the sea. She will reach into you and tear out those parts of you that you try to run from and expose them to the world." The clerk said, and when she felt she had sufficiently traumatized the boy, she released him to snivel backwards, holding the keys like a comfort.
"Your boat is called Poseidon's Lover. Third row, bottom left." The clerk said, and typed something into an old register that clacked with each finger, "Total comes to $4000, plus tax for the week."
Jordan slowly nodded and reached into his pocket and took out his card. "Yes, of course. There should be plenty on my card..."
"We don't do credit." The clerk stated, and Jordan's frustration culminated in a single guttural:
"Oh mother f-"
Sea air ran through his hair, and the horizon shone over the vast lapping tide. The lick of salt and splashes of waves danced together with the hum of the motor as Jordan sailed out. This was true power. True mastery of the waves. He felt his skin dry from the salt and loved every second of it.
When at last he thought himself far enough, he stepped out and turned off the motor, before retreating down into his cabin, the captain's cabin. He stood proudly for a moment, then once he was done standing proudly, wasn't sure what to do anymore.
The interior was wooden, mixed with a painted white metal base. His bed, or bunk rather, was inset across from the kitchen stove, with chairs and a table making up the dining room. For the next week, he was the captain of this ship, this room, and the chips and hot dogs he had brought along as his only source of food.
On occasion, he would sit on the edge of the ship, staring out into the sea. Other times, he would stretch or perhaps he would eat more chips. But, for the most part, he resorted to just scrolling on his phone or playing mindless games. He wasn't sure when the manliness part was supposed to kick in, or the self-discovery. He just sat there mostly, waiting for the moment to hit him, waiting for the realization of aha! I am confident now, but it never came.
As day stretched into night, he brushed his teeth in the mirror, the gentle rocking of the boat causing one of the two towels he brought to sway gently behind him.
He spat and looked at himself.
He flexed.
He sagged.
He stared.
He forced his face not to upturn in disgust.
The face that nobody wanted.
Jordan stepped away and shuffled into the other part of the room, plopping down onto his bunk. He felt something in the bed, tucked under some of the covers. His hand reached down and found a thick magazine hidden away, shoved haphazardly and forgotten. An old magazine, 70s or so, depicting a woman without clothing. She was draped in deep black and white sheets that curled over her like the waves; her curves accentuated. The woman stared back at him. Jordan grimaced, disgusted to have found such a thing. The woman glared into him, daring him to throw her away. She looked at him with serenity and a certainty that made him uncomfortable, like she knew something he didn't. She once more dared him to throw her away, and Jordan tossed her into the small trash bin inside the kitchen, an arm's reach away.
Jordan shoved himself into the bed, covering himself with the blanket and trying to shut himself out of the world. He turned over, trying not to think of the roiling emotions boiling in his gut, the nauseating feeling that permeated his mind. Or maybe that was just the boat rocking back and forth, and sea sickness had found him. Sleep tried to find him, but it couldn't. His mind wandered too far away, the expression he had at himself, the expectations. His mother was worried sick. He knew that. She was worried he would be hurt, and he was worried he was hurting her. Jordan held no hate for her, only himself. He couldn't describe it. No matter how many diets, no matter how many fitness routines, he still was disgusted by that face in the mirror. Nobody wanted that, including him. Maybe he was creepy? Maybe that was it. He was just creepy or unlikable or gross, and then he could attribute it to something outside his blame. He didn't want to blame his mom, though. She had been through enough.
A hum rang outside the boat; a thrumming pulse of noise - quiet, like a signal. Jordan listened to it but didn't think much of it. It was odd; maybe the boat was getting settled. It was melodic. Soft. Swaying. It relaxed him, made him feel that little bit less restless. He fell into sleep to the sound of the distant humming, the saunter of the ocean looming towards him, truth unbroken.
The hum was gone when he awoke, the thick scent of the sea clouding his nose. The bright light of the sun pierced through into the cabin. He checked his phone. It was nine; he hadn't slept in as much as he had hoped, but maybe that was for the best. He could get a head start on finding out what to do. He stepped out of bed and fetched a bowl of dry cereal for himself for breakfast.
His pantry and food stores were made up of all young people's food: cereal, chips, microwavable meals, hot dogs - stuff he could easily cook without thought. He had brought a cookbook along, just in case he tried to get into cooking again, but as night fell, it overwhelmed like it always did. He once aspired for something else, to maybe get into baking or cooking, but gave up soon thereafter. He had given up on a lot of hobbies, a lot of things. Many had assumed he would give up on this sailing expedition, and there were times he thought he might. That he would fail anyway. Jordan was resenting the boat now for not fixing him, for just leaving him alone with his thoughts. As he tossed his disposable spoon into the trash bin, the magazine model's face looked back at him. Jordan was alone with this draped woman staring back at him from the garbage. Jordan snarled at it, and it didn't care. It continued its perpetual staring into him, judging him, confident against the storm of his wreckage. He reached in and pulled out the magazine, came up onto the deck, then ripped out the pages and tossed them overboard. That would teach her.
The woman's face floated there, still staring at him, but she was out there and he was in here. He finished breakfast on the other side of the boat, trying to ignore the magazine woman still watching him from the other side. It was such a distraction that he realized something: the shore was missing. Jordan checked the other side of his ship. The shore was gone there as well. He saw nothing but the vast horizon, the endless swashing of the sea below him. And the magazine woman, taunting him, mocking him for his stupidity. Surely, he had remembered to set the anchor down? Jordan checked around the front of the ship, a large metal anchor sitting comfortably on the deck, unused.
"Dammit!" Jordan shouted aloud to no one, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, checking for a signal. Nothing. The waves had sent him off course. God, what a mess. He tried to breathe in and out. It's fine. He couldn't be that far offshore. It was only one night, after all. He still had a compass, even. He could head back to shore whenever he liked.
He would go back as a laughing stock. No, he couldn't deal with that, coming back with his tail between his legs, dumping cash on a boat rental that he barely used. No. This was just part of his plan. That's what he would say: "Disconnecting from the mess of the world." "No internet, no mess, just the good outdoors." That's right. It was manly to be without signal in the middle of nowhere. It was strapping, a fine showmanship of manliness to survive on your own with nothing but your wits and wilderness. But he shouldn't be stupid. Jordan dropped the anchor down, hooking it into the deep below, then sat on the deck, thinking.
The magazine continued to taunt him. Somehow it hadn't floated nearly far enough away. The woman stared back at him with that same expression, that same confident unblemished certainty. It wasn't judging him now. He just felt... pitied. Apologetic. But Jordan didn't need her sympathy. He took an oar from below deck and used it to push the magazine away, sending it off into the waves, her face longing to find him. Jordan spent the rest of the day napping, and by the time it stretched into night, he was wide awake, staring up at the stars. Of course he wasn't actually staring. No, he was fidgeting. The vast impossibility of all the stars in the sky without the light to infect them, and he couldn't escape the nagging need to escape. No phone, no peace, nothing but his thoughts. It made him wander. It made him mad.
The humming began again, but this time he was awake for it. It was louder this time. It was directional. A ship maybe? The humming rose and fell, distantly moving through the waves. Jordan looked over towards the sound. Something was in the water; that was certain. He saw it moving about. A dolphin? Or a whale? It was dolphin sized, for certain. Amidst his sea of panic, the noise offered some compensation, some calm in the mess. He wanted to get closer, to see what it was, but he didn't want to scare whatever it was away. Jordan inhaled, and just... took in the air. The stars. The sea. The sound. The water crested up and down, following in the footsteps of the moon above, while the stars shone in the sky above and in the world below. He was but one ship, floating in a void, but a void filled with life unseen. His little white ship bound him to the space. At first, it seemed like a safety bubble, but more and more, it seemed like a prison, a closed box while the world lived on around him - the sea everlasting and forever. It was terrifying and uncertain, and in such a world of cluttered open air, who was he to deny its offering of openness. The sky could not lie. The water could not pretend. It was itself, and he was in a boat, dressing himself up as a captain. The world could be beautiful, when he let it be. He relaxed his shoulders and let it wash over him, his body soothed by the sound. Peace, far from the world. Was this why men came out to sea? To nature? To rest easy in the quiet? His thoughts were only that of what was before him, and it felt good.
Maybe he could bring it closer, tell the story to his mom and others. Yes, it was wonderful. He would brag all about hearing dolphins and feeding them hot dogs. He wasn't worried about food; he could sail back to shore if needed. Besides, how often would he get this chance? Jordan stepped down into the kitchen and took the small slick bag of cheap hot dogs from the fridge, then came back up and broke off a few bits before tossing them into the water. In the darkness of the water below, he could make out a few fish moving to investigate, before nibbling a little and swimming away. Jordan took out his phone and snapped a few pictures of them, chuckling to himself. The humming persisted but stayed right where it was. Maybe he would get a better chance to see it in the morning. Jordan fell asleep to the sound of the creature once more, its song soothing his anxieties. It would be fine, and he slept in his bunk. The swath of the swaying boat easing him into morning.
The hot dogs were still there the next day, aside from the wayward nibble of a few fish, which continued to take the odd bite of them. That was entertainment in itself, he supposed. If he were a fisherman, perhaps this trip would have made more sense. He tried to get into fishing, but it was just one of the many hobbies that went nowhere. Maybe he could find out what that humming was? With no signal, he took to the cabinets of the sailboat's cabin, searching for maybe a tour guide or a wildlife guide, and stumbled upon a thick encyclopedia. Ocean creatures A-Z. Reading it was better than anything else he had planned, so he propped himself up on the deck of the ship and began to read through it. Nothing about 'humming' per say, but plenty about whales and whale song, the clicking of dolphins. He had heard whale's song on recording before, the odd video on the internet, and he knew it was deep and sonorous. But this sounded lighter, more silken. Maybe it was just a younger whale? Or a different kind than the one he listened to. It made well enough sense that the hot dogs were uneaten. Whales don't eat those, at least not the ones in these waters. Though, how funny would it be if it was an orca? He chuckled at the thought of seeing Shamu without the conditions of Blackfish. What a charming thing.
The book occupied his time between food, bathroom breaks, and watching the fish. Time moved slowly; it forced him to look down at the waves, look down at himself. His reflection stared back at him, gradually becoming distorted by the water's tossing and turning. He didn't object to such a malformation. It made it less unbearable to look at himself. At least the fish didn't mind. He could take comfort in that. He snapped a few more pictures. Animals would rarely expose themselves like this, so maybe the whale was a blessing of some kind? He would find himself, the whale was the answer... somehow. It was a nice thought. He stayed up late to listen again, hoping to hear the song.
As day fell into night, he laid on the deck scrolling through his phone, looking at the pictures he took. All the little fish, eating away at the hot dogs. It was cute; sweet even. He continued to scroll back to the pictures from the night before, when... Jordan chuckled to himself. That's funny. Oh, that's really funny. He could swear, with the lighting of the boat, that he saw something deeper in the water in that picture. He could swear that, hiding in the picture, he could see a pair of eyes staring up at him from deep in the ocean, watching him. He double-checked. It must be the reflection of the light from the boat, or maybe his phone, because it didn't look like a seal or a dolphin. It must have been the light because, well...
He could swear it looked human.
Earlier this time, just as the sun had set, the humming came again. Louder. He could see the beast distantly moving through the waves; the full breadth of it hidden in the darkness. It was just this black shadow cresting through and ducking in and out of sight. But he could make out it was there. It was peaceful, and as he hung his feet over the side of the ship, his legs hooked over the railing; serenity found him again. Then, the humming stopped. Without warning.
Jordan looked back towards where the creature was and saw only the darkness of the sea and the waves crashing. He looked outwards, then sighed. The beast must have left, and as he pouted, the light of his ship illuminated something in the water. The magazine was still there, just below the surface, the iron gaze of the cover woman staring back at him. His disappointment turned into irritation. He couldn't escape the damn thing. How hadn't it dissipated by now? Or at least floated away or gotten eaten by crabs or something? Ugh.
Jordan grimaced, and once again fetched the oar from below deck, rummaging through all the stuff he had left brutally unorganized. Finally, under a stack of chip bags and clothes, he found the oar and took it back onto the deck of the ship. The magazine was still there in the water, still looking up at him in the same spot. Jordan scoffed and extended the oar downwards over the side of the ship. It was a little too deep in the waves. He leaned over the side further; his stomach pressed against the metal railings of the deck, to push the magazine away. His back was in far too much pain for his age, but he had to lean against the rail nonetheless. Why won't it just float away or something? The cover woman's face just stared back at him. The oar made contact with the face and the face didn't budge.
In a flash of movement, a hand launched upwards and grabbed the oar. Jordan was yanked out of the boat and into the water. He yelped with terror as the salt water hit his mouth. Jordan slammed through the waves and felt himself being pulled by the oar deeper and deeper. The humming roared into a song that blocked out all other noise, a sticky sweet lure that forced his body to relax, but his mind knew differently. He looked back, the sting of the ocean and the rush of force compressing his lungs as he saw the woman from the magazine cover staring back at him, pulling him downwards. The black and white linens from the cover pulsed outwards and compressed, opening and closing like an octopus to launch them both down into the dark. Her eyes stared back at him once more, unbreaking in their gaze.
Jordan released the oar and swam upwards, back to the boat. He rose into fresh air, gasping and coughing, burping with a burn as his body tried to find any way to breathe. The moment he could take in air again was the moment he felt his leg grabbed by the softest hands in the world. He was dragged below again. Jordan saw the eyes of the woman staring back at him, her expression unchanging, serene in their beauty, resolute in their purpose. He kicked at her hand, his legs slow and stifled by the water around him. The silks that draped her began to open up around him, coiling around his body like a massive sheet to swallow him. He kicked and kicked and kicked again, trying to swim upwards. He was wasting energy in his flailing. It wasn't until the oar floated into view that he stood any chance of survival. Jordan reached out for it, his hand passing through the silken sheets as they sought to swaddle him in a final embrace.
A surge of pain ran through his arm as he touched the edges of the silks. His veins were on fire. The stinging sensation that followed wasn't pleasant, but as he grasped the oar, his adrenaline drove high enough to smack the hand backwards and off his leg. He swam upwards once more for air, frantically clawing his way back up onto the ship. His heart pounded; his eyes scorched. He spat up water as air once again found him. Then the pain of his arm hit once more as he laid there on the deck, clutching at his skin as a feeling of something crawling underneath it struck him. Nothing seemed outwardly wrong with it, but he felt it. He clutched at the sting of whatever was down there. Jordan moved to the helm of the ship, starting the motor to get away from here, escape from whatever this was.
The ship started, and within moments of it launching forward, he felt the heavy tug of the anchor behind him. Jordan stepped away from the helm and began to pull up the anchor, only for something to pull back on the other side, threatening to pull him in again. Jordan tumbled forward from the pull, landing on his stung arm. Pain ran through him again, and as the chain slid past him, clattering towards the waves, Jordan grabbed it once more. He hooked his other arm around one of the railings and pulled, slowly dragging the chain upwards once more as it went taut. Down in the dark waters it pulled on the anchor again, causing Jordan to buckle against the force and release the anchor. He watched the chain get dragged along, running its entire length before stopping, swaying, then locking in place. Down below, the anchor had been tied to a rock, knotted and locked in place. No more running.
He sat up on the deck. Panting. Shaking. Then looked. Listening. Waiting. The humming began again, clearer now. He heard a song intermingled with it. An omen. A promise. The notes seemed familiar, the voice seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. He knew he was too far from the shore; he knew he was in the domain of something buried deep down that no longer wanted to be ignored. Jordan shuffled back along, and stepped back into the cabin, drying himself off. More so padding away at himself as he sat looking at the bathroom mirror, shaken at what he had seen in the water looking back at him. His arm still stung. He looked down at it, a dull irritation running through it. But every time he scratched it, a surge of stinging pain ran through him.
Jordan stumbled over to his bunk, too exhausted to think, yet too wired to sleep. The humming did nothing to aid his sleep, as he lay there until morning came. When the sun rose, the noise finally stopped. Sleep found him briefly, and with that small bout of rest, he rose once again to look out over the sea. There was a person out here, a person with the face of that woman in the magazine. No. This was something else. Something worse. He looked at his arm. It still itched, and reflexively, he began to scratch at it. It didn't hurt anymore; it just itched like hell. He scratched and scratched at it, offhandedly, while he set about finding something to fend off the creature.
He took a butter knife from the kitchen and tied it to one of the oars, hoping that it might scare the creature off. Jordan was pretty sure this wouldn't work. He was pretty sure of a lot of things, but recently, he had begun doubting his impressions of the world. He swore to himself as the itching persisted, then fetched a first aid kit from below. The itch continued to burn into him, driving him mad. Jordan began to search through the kit, trying to find something for treating jellyfish stings. He couldn't think of any other comparison. It had stung him; it had silk tendrils. A jellyfish was the closest he could approximate, right? He found a set of cream, and detailed instructions he immediately ignored as he began to slather the cream on his entire arm. It was cold and slimy, but he hoped that as it settled in, the itching would stop. He scratched all the same.
He stumbled back onto the deck, his gait an oxymoron of restlessness and exhaustion. Jordan sat there with his homemade spear, staring at the water, his distorted reflection looking back at him. He waited and waited. A day of waiting. He didn't dare look away. This was the masculine thing to do, after all. To kill it. To conquer nature in all her forms, to kill and kill and rule and win. That's what men do. This was what he had to do. God, he sounded like such a monster right now, but he didn't want whatever that was to kill him. That's what it wanted, right? In the stories about sirens or mermaids or whatever? That's why it took the magazine lady's face. To taunt him, to lure him in, to drown him? He kept watch, and he laid there on the deck when night fell again. Sleep caught him as he laid there, with his spear in hand and the waves rocking him gently to sleep, his hand hanging over the side.
A hand rose up from the water to meet his, her fingertips touching his, softly caressing them. She reached up and coiled fingers through his, then began to slowly pull as he was unconscious. As he was slowly dragged towards the side in the midst of slumber, his body pressed against the metal railing. The cold of the metal shot him awake and he pulled away from the hand. He scrambled to wake up. Jordan looked out over the water, taking his spear and pointing it towards the deep. Nothing was there, nothing but that lingering sensation of her hands gently holding his. The distraction burned into his mind, and it only got worse as he heard the humming, the song. The song was more pronounced now, more audible. It rang, echoing through the ocean. Its sweetness a lie. A deceit. It was trying to trick him still, trying to hurt him. He wouldn't let it hurt him. He scratched at his arm with each anxious breath, hairs falling off as he absentmindedly scraped at the limb. He readied the oar, looking for the creature, readying himself for wherever it was hiding.
The song persisted. Echoing. Slithering into every corner of his fortress, trying to reach his mind. It rose in noise, in tempo, surging and cresting downwards. Jordan reached up, dropping his weapon as the noise rose, the sound in his ears silencing all else. He covered them, but the noise still got through. He stumbled backwards, trying to retreat to the cabin. He searched the kitchen to look for cotton, wax, anything to cover his ears, and found only his pillow in the bed across from him. He squished it down over the sides of his head, trying to ignore the noise. The worst part was that he liked the song. It soothed him. It made him feel safe, wanted. It made him feel loved, and that's why he was scared of it. That's why he hated it. Jordan shouted, trying to silence the song that rattled the ship, the inexorable.
Then, it stopped. The deafening song stopped. Jordan took a breath, trying to recover, to breathe, and think.
Amidst the ringing in his ears, he could make out another sound. A splash, then the pat...pat... pat of footsteps. The beast was on the ship. He couldn't make it to his weapon in time. He rushed to the front of the cabin, the open door betraying the woman coming around the side.
Long silken robes slithered and twisted around the corner, dragging the rest of the beautiful form closer. Her footsteps delicately stepped around to try to enter the cabin, but Jordan was faster. He slammed the cabin door closed, only for the door to be caught by her hand, pushing back against him. Her eyes stared at him from the crack in the door, the same eyes from the magazine that had watched him fumble and pitied him. Her gaze persisted, everlasting. Why couldn't he escape it? He tried to close the door again, slamming against her fingers, but she endured. Rage and frustration and terror boiled within him as he tried again and again, but the moment caught him nonetheless. He heard her speak in his mind, in his voice, perhaps the only voice she knew:
"Why do you hate me?"
Jordan yelled at her, just trying to make the noise stop before bringing the door onto her fingers again. She retreated without a sound and the crack closed, leaving Jordan alone in the cabin. He didn't hear her walk away from the door. She just stood there, waiting. He shivered, holding the door closed as he put his hand against it, then slid down, blocking it with his back. He heard shuffling on the other side, and a thud. She was resting on the door, waiting for him to let her inside. He could feel her eyes staring against him; the embrace of her touch pressing against his hand from the other side of the door. But he wouldn't let her in. He couldn't let her in. Jordan stayed there until the morning came, when the humming started up again, and he heard her step off the boat, and the splash of her reentering the water.
...Why did it have to speak? Everything about this was dangerous, everything in Jordan's core said that this thing was trying to hurt him, but then the song, then the way it spoke, like it was hurt. He scratched at his arm to remind himself of what it wanted. It was trying to manipulate him, he knew that. That's why it used his voice, it must not have a voice of its own. Yes, that was it. It has no voice, no face. An abomination. A mimic, trying to replicate what it sees to lure him in, to drag him below, tricking him! Then again, if it was trying to trick him, why did it ask that question so much like a person would? It was hurt, not physically, but emotionally. No! It was inhuman, a monster echoing everything around it. But it was also human, echoing emotions in turn. Why would it do this to him? Where did it get that pain?
Jordan tried to force himself to sleep, but his body rejected him. It writhed at the emotions inside him. The scratching at his mind only worsened, and the itch along his arm only intensified. Tears and anguish vomited out of his body. Guilt haunted him, and the itch only amplified it. Pained crying ran through his body, and Jordan, though strong of will, couldn't contest it. It felt like his heart was rotting away, his soul being torn apart. What horrors of the deep could overwhelm a man's soul, the yearning and anguish that devours? This woman was just a figment, surely, but in this world of fallacies and falsifications, what difference was a figment to the real? It hurt all the same. Jordan ached with this feeling in his body. The betrayal in her eyes. The desire for want, to be wanted. To be more than his shell. As he laid there, shivering and writhing and scratching, he looked upon his arm and saw the blood trailing from it.
Jordan turned on a light, looking closer at his arm. His skin was carved by self-inflicted scratching, peeling away. His nails had cut into him like a dull knife, which made the pain all the worse. But, through the tears, he saw something inside of him. His arm was bloated, oversized, like it had become a cocoon for something growing along his bones underneath. Curiosity and horror overtook him as he looked at it, then felt along the scratches to a flap in his own skin. He lifted the lip, peeling away a layer of necrotic flesh to reveal what was beneath. A euphoria ran through him, an involuntary relief, like he had peeled off a wound. There he saw another person's arm connected to his body, having grown onto his bones and muscle to replace his original arm. Its skin now acting as his skin, with his old flesh left to peel away in a grotesque degloving along his entire arm. A gooping liquid occupied the space between the two layers of flesh. Its texture was that of embryonic fluid, a sticky sweetness that poisoned the air and was unfamiliar to Jordan, but spoke of a deeper transmogrification on the horizon. He could control it as if it were his own, but the venom had transformed part of him, as had the terror of what it was doing: who would I become if I let it take me? He closed the lip of skin, but his eyes couldn't forget the sight.
Sleep put him out of his misery, so the exhaustion of his emotions did not sunder him further.
He woke, staring at the ceiling of his cabin; his eyes tattered with exhaustion, his demeanor eaten by guilt. His hand rested on his arm, holding it, his fingertips feeling the skin underneath, the softness of it. It felt reassuring, and he hated himself for thinking that. The intoxicating euphoria that had come with peeling away the flesh infected his body and his mind. That betrayal he felt within him, was it his, or hers, or were they the same? Perhaps that's what did in Odysseus' men when they faced the sirens; not the longing, but the guilt that they would betray something that loved them for not joining them to die on the rocks. Or maybe, Jordan was just losing himself - not that there was much to lose to begin with. He had no hobbies to keep, no friends on this trip with him; the only one in his life was his mother, and even then... maybe the only reason he was fighting his fate was to stop her misery. How poorly his inevitability would hurt her, because all she had - all they had - was each other. But he couldn't keep living with this feeling. Would succumbing be the death of that bond? Or would it just be death?
Night came. He didn't even notice, despite it feeling like hours, despite having sat there with nary food nor drink, just staring up at the ceiling as the infection slithered further up to his shoulder. Was this to be his fate? His end? Then he might as well grow the courage to face it.
Jordan climbed up onto the deck, sitting down to face out over the water. He waited. Maybe it wouldn't hurt just to try to speak to her. Just to apologize. Just to ask questions. Why was he apologizing? She was trying to change him. She was trying to take away something from him; why was he apologizing to her? Maybe he just wanted to know what this was, what that guilt was, what the venom was, and why it was doing this. He couldn't dwell. But he was forced there with his thoughts. He had tricked himself onto a boat of isolation, and when locked in the dark, he had found a door that opened up to a place sealed away. He just waited as the humming came... no more fighting back, no more running, just... looking at her dead in the face and hoping that he could meet her gaze.
The silks slithered aboard and pulled her onto the ship; her feet delicately stepping onto the deck like an angel descending from heaven above. Her song rang around her, not even from her mouth, but humming from gills hidden in the cracks and weaves in her form, vibrating like strings on an instrument. She stared at him, her face level with his, no different than his reflection in the water. Was she waiting for something? Or was he waiting for her to do something? Jordan sat. He showed her his arm, trying to express his confusion and horror. He began to peel more of the skin away, revealing the other arm inside, the thing that couldn't escape his mind. The euphoria came again as he peeled back to reveal the flesh inside. A wet slap as the necrotic husk of skin fell to the ground. The humming came to a close, and she spoke, once more with his voice. Now he could hear the changes. It was through her, but it was his voice, an impression.
"It hurts... doesn't it?"
Jordan said nothing, but the acknowledgement could be felt in his expression, his exhaustion. He shivered in place.
"I can make it go away."
"No... no you can't... because you're the source of all this pain." Jordan said, not angry, just sad. "You made me into something else..."
"It's your arm."
"I don't know what this is."
"Metamorphosis."
"It's not what I was supposed to be. I didn't come out here to change into something I'm not."
She shook her head, then assured him, "Yes you did."
She gestured outwards to the ocean using one of the tentacles, the ribbons trailing outwards. "You. You wanted to prove your bravado to yourself, desperate for the approval of everyone you meet. You came here to prove to yourself you were something you weren't. But I see right through you."
She didn't show any change in expression. Jordan bowed his head, unable to keep her gaze. She continued to speak.
"I won't leave."
"I know..." Jordan buried his head in his hands, then felt the silks move forward and coil around his palms, offering their softness so he had some comfort. He shook his head, then scolded himself internally for saying what he was about to say. "You're not real..."
"I am; that's why it hurts so much. You came here to find the truth. You found it, sunken down in the waters you forgot."
"You're going to drown me." Jordan insisted, and the guilt ran through his body. He continued to scratch at his arm.
"You must not know your stories. Sirens drown sailors. Sirens drown men."
Oh. Jordan understood now. That only made it hurt worse. His body and mind were aligned; he understood exactly what was going on. He had come here to find the truth. He had come to find himself... but why did it hurt so bad? He looked up at her, proclaiming, "I'm terrified of you."
"Why?"
"Because even if I was honest, I'd never be you. I'd never be beautiful or wanted or loved like you."
"No, but you'd be you. Which is more than you've been."
All this insistence, all these ideas about what he had tried to force himself to be, to force himself to do, and here he was, unable to escape the song, the anguish, the truth: her. The siren song lingered forevermore, in every corner of the vast ocean of the world. He was so confined to his box, his little ship, that he didn't know the ocean below, and everything within.
"I can't."
"It hurts too much not to."
"I can keep hurting a little while longer. Long enough to pretend. Long enough so everyone is happy." Jordan insisted, then added, "I'm good at that."
"Why do you hate us so much that you would do that?"
Jordan shook his head, then confessed, tears in his eyes, "I... I don't know. Because I'm not... not..."
The silks coiled around his entire frame, and the woman stepped forward, embracing him. Jordan embraced her back, staring outwards because he still couldn't bear to face her. He thought of his mother. If this was an invitation, if this was tossing everything away to leave the world behind and step into the wide ocean, then she would be alone in the world.
"I can't tell her. It would break her heart."
"No, it wouldn't."
"I couldn't go back."
"There's never any going back, for any decision. You must learn... or the song will go on and on, haunting you until you are naught more than a voice in the wind."
"Will I still be me?"
"More than ever."
Jordan sighed, pressing his face downward against her shoulder. He cried into her shoulder, shaking his head. She felt like a sponge, soaking up the tears.
"I can't leave her behind. I'm all she has."
This gave the creature pause. She seemed to think, if she was even capable of that. Jordan didn't know if she was thinking, or just reflecting his thoughts, letting them manifest against the organism. Or was she a force of nature, no different than a storm coming in? Maybe she was thinking, maybe she was mourning, or maybe she was just patient.
"... I am no god. My invitation is not conditional. We will find each other again. In whatever life waits for you." She let the silk tendrils scrape along his face and his body, with shocks of venom creeping in. Jordan just stayed there in the embrace as the shocks ran along him, causing his skin to flake and peel. He sat there, hugging her, until the sun came back up. He felt her melt in his arms, the image of her at the very least, fading into nothing but sea foam in his hands, before trailing off into the ocean below. The woman was gone, leaving him with nothing but his reflection in the waters below.
He stepped back into the cabin of the boat. Was it done?
Now what?
He stepped back below the deck. He sat for a moment, trying to absorb what had happened, and then with little else coming to mind, he spent the rest of the day just doing normal things, trying to calm himself. He ate some breakfast. He laid down for a nap. He read through the book of sea animals yet again. He continued to scratch at his arm, gradually peeling away at more and more of it until the hand underneath came into view.
It was hers. Or it would be.
As he spat up another glob of toothpaste into the sink, he saw her staring back at him from the mirror. He took a step back in shock, holding his chest. The walls around the mirror began to melt into the mirror itself, like the glass was water leaking into the world around them. He felt dizzy, the venom causing him to scratch his arm. Then, without a word, her hand reached out to him from the mirror. An offering, should he choose to take it. A mercy; the power to wield the song as he saw fit. The power of metamorphosis. He stood there, contemplating it, and he took a deep breath. He reached out with his encased hand, and her fingertips reached up and around the lip of that necrotic flesh, peeling it backwards and down. The entirety of the rotten husk was degloved from his arm, the skin ripping off and splattering to the ground below. Jordan looked at his hand, moving her fingers, euphoria taking him to an ecstatic high that chased him to the ends of himself. Her hand extended once more from the mirror. Reflexively, he took it.
He was pulled into the mirror, a splash of water from the reflection spraying outwards and splattering along the outside of the cabin. He dove into the pool of the vast deep, the light of the ship fading away behind him. His cabin with its half-forgotten bag of chips shrinking until it was naught but a memory. It was murky, messy and dark. The sound of distant whale calls and forlorn schools met only by the pressure that ran along his frame. He swam in that vast ocean, letting the pressure release him. He couldn't see them, but he could feel them. Hands. Those same silken tendrils, swimming past him, running their hands along his body. The venom scraped along his flesh. He felt his limbs molting, peeling away to scales, glimmering in the light. He felt his eyes adapt to the deep, an invitation to the cosmic transmutation; not rejected, not horrible or mutated, but beautiful. He saw jellyfish, dancing up above, lost in the tide. Coral coming to light, formed into figures locked in an embrace. Sand structures crested upwards into volcanic vents that warmed schools of fish that trailed up and around. Rich forests of life and shining brilliance, murals of color in impossibly massive displays of inconceivable geometry. The eldritch. The unknown. The incomprehensible terror of one's self and beyond, that so many hid from, was not horror. It was welcoming, because it was a breadth beyond his little boat and his little, close-minded world.
The outer shell of what he used to be continued to scrape away until he was nothing but another denizen of the vast deep. It didn't erase him, but it did change him. It changed him into something that would silence that thought in his mind; that would quiet the song. He was himself now; the mask, the skin he had worn for all the others was shed. In the vast deep, he sang the song himself in celebration. It was different. But maybe it was better this way. Maybe she was better this way.
Jordan stepped down onto the dock, bags trailing over the boards yet again; same shirt, same pants, but a smile instead of an insistent frown. The boat was returned on time, no scratches, no changes, no memory of the horrors that befell. But Jordan remembered. She walked with the confidence of someone who remembered herself, who remembered the hidden truths at the core of her being. The clerk looked, and saw, then gave a nod of acknowledgement, and went back to her business. It wasn't until Jordan steeled herself to take out her phone and make a call that the change really sunk in. The deep did not scare her nearly as much as the things above, and the fears that came with the known. She went through her contacts, and called:
"Hey, Mom, I have something to tell you."
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