Page 112 of Satan's Spawn
Which is why I decided to splurge and take a little extra time after my final class to enjoy the pool, the only place besides the track that makes me feel content in this school of teenage hell.
It’s also why I was able to convince Hendrix to head back to our dorm room without me.
I continue working on my side stroke, because, thanks to a wet kitchen floor and broken shoulder in ninth grade, my right arm is still stiff and the technique is not up to par.
Swimming has always been important to me, since I had every intention of becoming a lifeguard when I turned eighteen.
That, along with almost every other plan I had for myself in La Jolla, has been squashed like a bug under the universe’s feet.
Shitty turn of events won’t stop me from enjoying the water however I can, though.
A scream from the boys locker room doesn’t even phase me as I continue gliding across the pool, assuming it’s the two guys who just left horsing around in there. After a few more strokes, I dip beneath the surface to feel the pressure of warm water against my face and continue to swim this way, only coming up for air when necessary.
When I’ve gotten my fill of practice, I switch to floating to settle my heartbeat, something Dad taught me to do at a very young age as a safety precaution. He would always say the ocean may not be as beautiful as the women in his life, but it was definitely as temperamental.
It was his running joke for me and Mom.
But the technique was also a great way to help someone like me shut my brain off and focus. Ease my anxieties.
Center myself.
I needed to learn how to do that more than survive in the ocean if I’m being honest.
For me, survival instinct was always a lot less natural outside water and even worse after I lost my dad.
Tidal waves, undertows, tsunamis.
None of them frightened me as much as what one clogged artery was capable of.
Blinking away the tears I can’t feel but know are there, I replace them with a deep inhale, slow exhale. I do this until there’s nothing but the sound of my breathing and underwater acoustics in my ears.
Humming, sloshing, whooshing.
My version of peace and quiet.
I rub my fingers together, and a sad smile ensues as I find tiny wrinkles at the tips, remembering all the times Dad would tease me and say I’d turn into a prune if I didn’t get out of the water.
Another rush of nostalgia has my body tensing, feeling as though it’s gone from light as a feather to heavy as a freight train with reminders of him.
I sink beneath the surface one more time and spin until I’m dizzy, hoping to shed the sadness engulfing me.
It works for the most part.
Deciding to call it quits on the aquatics, I make my way over to the edge of the pool, lifting myself up onto my ass to sit down and air dry.
I look down at my feet, circling them, forming endless spirals that spread wider across the pool until finally, they vanish into steady water.
The sound of footsteps break my gaze, and when my head darts up I find my nemesis being dragged in the room by a laughing Saint.
There’s not a smile to be found, or any sign of life coming from Crayton’s expression. It’s cold, hard, and irate as his fists ball at his sides. That’s when I realize mine are squeezing the edge of the pool so hard my nails start to ache.
How does this guy always find me?
I try my best not to make eye contact as they cross the other end of the pool, Saint whispering something in Crayton’s ear right before he…
What the heck?
Saint shoves Crayton in the pool and takes off out of the natatorium, probably afraid of what the hell his friend is going to do to him.
