Sinking Away

What happens when they feel as if their voice is not heard

Sometimes if I release enough tension and sit I can still feel the coarse sand, reaching cracks and crevices foreign of sand. My eyes sting from the water, something I have gotten used to overtime. It has become a nuisance, no more than an itch. When my body is not receiving another blow, seagulls fill my ears. Such funny creatures. My hearing is enhanced with all the water filling them. Titling my head I can feel the water trickling through my head, following the course of gravity. More hair falls loose from my now misshapen bun as another wave hits me square in the face. Pulled by the wind this one is more violent, knocking me backwards like fate. And so, I give in and lay there as the water runs over and protects me from the outside world. When I am there, submerged in its protection, nothing else exists. The ocean cleanses me, ridding my head from its voices, the taunting I can still so clearly hear. It is my savior, my escape, one place that I can truly escape the troubles of the world. 

The ocean is incomparable to something man made. There is something gorgeous within pure nature that can never be captured by humans. Instead of trying to replicate it, humans need to learn to cherish it. So here I am, stepping into my tub, trying to cherish the memories I have stored away, so I can feel the power that nature has over the human body one final time. 

Instead of seagulls filling my ears there is the shrill honking of horns, anchoring me into this dreadful reality that I live in. Big cities  Everyone that lives here acts like they are running a race. They have to be the first to get in line, the first car to move, the person chosen for that one promotion that will give them the sense of external validation they so desperately crave. Looking inward is not a trait these people possess. Neither is empathy or compassion. I should know better than anyone. 

I was not introduced to this world until my body hit metamorphism; morphing into someone I did not know. While other girls received gifts given to them from god, I was given a red filled face cursed on me by the devil himself. Those gifted, lorded over the cursed. Imposters were never able to seep through the ranks.  Those years felt like a millennial with no escape. Day in and day out they would send an onslaught of taunts our way. How could they ever be in the wrong, when they looked like the girls on magazine covers, the image of pure perfection. They were everything anyone ever wished they could be, confident and able to make anyone love them, traits I never did possess myself. Instead I became a chameleon, hiding from them in plain sight. My ears grew stoppers in them, trying to drown out the voices in a way that can ever only truly be achieved by water. Instead of keeping the voices out it trapped them inside my head haunting my every move. Instead of letting the voices in I had to find a feeling more powerful, a way to bleed the voices out of me. And so I did. It became my escape for those few blissful minutes. How was I supposed to feel the devil himself within me when there were these powerful feelings whisking me away to safety. It was an art form really; especially hiding from the world. With a robe no longer shielding me from the criticism, my imperfections are put on display. Those battle scars are front and center, calling me to fight the battle one final time. Instead, I retreat within my head. Why win one small battle when I am about to win the war. 

My arm breaks the protective surface of the water as I reach for the bottle of pills and cup of water taunting me, calling my name. Down the pills go one after the other being aided by my lukewarm cup of water. I never mastered the art of taking pills without water. I guess that no longer matters. 

As the water submerges my head I hopelessly wish for it to protect me the way the ocean did, wash away the past. Instead with nothing but the weight of water cloaking me it amplifies my past. I remember that day like it was yesterday. How could I not when it haunts my dream, molding me into an insomniac. Why would I willingly put myself through that torture over and over again. Instead my psyche pushes the memory on me every day. The little things trigger it, the smell of men's cologne, the texture of a scarf against my bare neck. A voice; deep, hoarse, and rough. A certain saying. Condescending praise. The list goes on and on. Those normal, everyday events send me through a time machine where hell was disguised as heaven; a time where eternal damnation was better than the life I was sentenced to live out. His imprints will always exist on my body no matter how many rashes or bruises I leave behind scrubbing away. Back then I quickly learned there was no point in fighting, why would I when I knew I would inevitably lose once again. 

My face breaks through the suffocating surface of the now lukewarm and murky water. I can’t let myself sink away just yet. I have one last task to complete. I reach for my letter hidden under a mess of magazines and one blue towel on the ornate wooden desk next to the tub. My damp hands grab for it plaguing the treasure with drops of destructive water. I pull it close hoping to read through it once last time. Instead like an alarm my vision begins to blur, telling me my time is up. Instead of reaching its final destination my arms go limp and like fate itself acted; it succumbs to the torrent of water