Dec 31 2022 19 mins 8
She was drowning, gasping brine down her raw and waterlogged throat, so I took her. And why not? This is all you know me for. I take children. I bring them to my cave beneath the sea, I tuck them inside, and I eat them.
You know why I do it. My own children stolen. Murdered, maybe by me and maybe not; I never found out and I don’t care to. But do you care? No. You only care that I take your children.
But I take the ones that are already gone. I watch them run, gleeful, into the waves, their sweet little heads never knowing what poison spines narrowly miss the soft soles of their feet, never minding what teeth graze their calves, but still crying as something–seaweed, you say, but they cry because instinct tells them it is fingers–caresses the tender backs of their knees.
So when I found her drowning, I took her. I wish to the gods I hadn’t.
Marielle’s first instinct is to scream her daughter’s name and sprint into the ocean so fast she fairly flies. Not the best instinct, but the one any mother would have, and you can’t blame her for it; it’s certainly what I did when I found my children gone.
The lifeguards shake their heads at her. Of course they do–their instincts are unnatural, trained rather than burned into their DNA.
But Marielle’s instinct is what allows her to see what she sees: the child’s hand not falling but yanked, the flash of glossy green that could be but isn’t quite seaweed. I think later, when I see her the way I see her little girl, that this is the moment that doomed me.
And then Marielle falls, face-first, into the water. Who can say what tripped her? An errant pebble, a child’s lost toy, the unexpected pitch of a wave.
Seaweed, maybe.
No matter. She goes down in water that’s up to her thighs, she gasps in brine, chokes it out, then gasps in more before she can slog her way up to her knees. She coughs the water out and starts to swim, or, more truthfully, to thrash. The lifeguards are past her now and she doesn’t care. All she’s thinking is please, please, please.
That doesn’t help. Her daughter is gone, has been gone, and no one, not even the lifeguards with their instincts honed to save such careless lives as these, can swim fast or deep enough to pull her free.
Is she thinking of the knife already? Surely not now. But is it a little more difficult for her to breathe? Does she toss more glances at the ocean than she should? Oh, yes.
I should know. I was once standing where she was in the sand, wishing for her daughter’s endless questions and not those of the cop who is ever so sorry about the drowning Marielle knows did not happen.
Gabby is nine when I take the tender heart from her chest in my cave of bright coral. That heart of hers wishes Daddy would work less, wishes he’d come to the beach even though he hates it, wishes she could get one more hug from her mama. Her hopes and loves and fears slide down my throat with the hot, salty flesh.
I used to save them. Used to take them to a cave of ivy and briony where they loved and grew up and wove wildflowers into their hair. But what good did that do me, what good did it do them? They still died in the end.
Rending their selves from bone, weaving their little souls to my own marrow, is so much better than letting them drown.
Marielle, in some ways, does not emerge from the water she fell into the day her daughter did not drown. I know the taste of this drowning, and I do not savor it.
Some days the water is rage. Some days the water is grief. Most days, for her, it is the research that her husband first tries to stop and then ignores with a discomfort that never leaves him.
She finds mermaids first. She remembers movies and books and she remembers that slick green something in the waves and she attacks this avenue with all the fervor of a starved wolf with a frozen, half-gnawed bone.
But, no, it’s not quite right.
You know why I do it. My own children stolen. Murdered, maybe by me and maybe not; I never found out and I don’t care to. But do you care? No. You only care that I take your children.
But I take the ones that are already gone. I watch them run, gleeful, into the waves, their sweet little heads never knowing what poison spines narrowly miss the soft soles of their feet, never minding what teeth graze their calves, but still crying as something–seaweed, you say, but they cry because instinct tells them it is fingers–caresses the tender backs of their knees.
So when I found her drowning, I took her. I wish to the gods I hadn’t.
Marielle’s first instinct is to scream her daughter’s name and sprint into the ocean so fast she fairly flies. Not the best instinct, but the one any mother would have, and you can’t blame her for it; it’s certainly what I did when I found my children gone.
The lifeguards shake their heads at her. Of course they do–their instincts are unnatural, trained rather than burned into their DNA.
But Marielle’s instinct is what allows her to see what she sees: the child’s hand not falling but yanked, the flash of glossy green that could be but isn’t quite seaweed. I think later, when I see her the way I see her little girl, that this is the moment that doomed me.
And then Marielle falls, face-first, into the water. Who can say what tripped her? An errant pebble, a child’s lost toy, the unexpected pitch of a wave.
Seaweed, maybe.
No matter. She goes down in water that’s up to her thighs, she gasps in brine, chokes it out, then gasps in more before she can slog her way up to her knees. She coughs the water out and starts to swim, or, more truthfully, to thrash. The lifeguards are past her now and she doesn’t care. All she’s thinking is please, please, please.
That doesn’t help. Her daughter is gone, has been gone, and no one, not even the lifeguards with their instincts honed to save such careless lives as these, can swim fast or deep enough to pull her free.
Is she thinking of the knife already? Surely not now. But is it a little more difficult for her to breathe? Does she toss more glances at the ocean than she should? Oh, yes.
I should know. I was once standing where she was in the sand, wishing for her daughter’s endless questions and not those of the cop who is ever so sorry about the drowning Marielle knows did not happen.
Gabby is nine when I take the tender heart from her chest in my cave of bright coral. That heart of hers wishes Daddy would work less, wishes he’d come to the beach even though he hates it, wishes she could get one more hug from her mama. Her hopes and loves and fears slide down my throat with the hot, salty flesh.
I used to save them. Used to take them to a cave of ivy and briony where they loved and grew up and wove wildflowers into their hair. But what good did that do me, what good did it do them? They still died in the end.
Rending their selves from bone, weaving their little souls to my own marrow, is so much better than letting them drown.
Marielle, in some ways, does not emerge from the water she fell into the day her daughter did not drown. I know the taste of this drowning, and I do not savor it.
Some days the water is rage. Some days the water is grief. Most days, for her, it is the research that her husband first tries to stop and then ignores with a discomfort that never leaves him.
She finds mermaids first. She remembers movies and books and she remembers that slick green something in the waves and she attacks this avenue with all the fervor of a starved wolf with a frozen, half-gnawed bone.
But, no, it’s not quite right.
