Dead River - By Cyn Balog Page 0,23
too. I try to wrench myself free and move to the center of the raft, but everything is forcing me toward the water. Or maybe it’s just that the river is pulling me to it, wanting to hold me closer. Another wave kicks up and splashes us, jerking the raft to the side. We’re in another rapids, and suddenly I’m over the edge and Justin is holding me by the arms. My body is in the water, and, strangely, it’s not bitingly cold. It feels warm, almost inviting, but I still clutch for something to get me out. Michael reaches over the side, trying to pull me back, shouting, “Hold on! Hold on!” Someone calls, “What the hell is going on?” I can tell that nobody knows what’s happening. I feel the pressure on my legs, under the water. As strong as Justin and Michael are, they’re no match for the hands that are under the water, clutching me. Pulling me down.
“Don’t let me go,” I whimper to Justin, and he strains to say “I won’t,” but I can tell he’s confused, unsure as to why he can’t hoist me back into the raft. I weigh half of what he does. He obviously can’t see what I can feel. The dozens of hands on my legs and waist, pulling me down until I can’t fight anymore. Slowly I let go and take one last, strangled breath before sliding under the surface.
It’s strange: once the water wraps around me, even the rush of it around me sounds like only one word, being whispered in my ear over and over again. Welcome.
I’m drowning.
In my head, I’m screaming. It feels as though I’ve been launched through a pinball machine. Like my body is careening at breakneck speed, being tossed every which way, and I have no control. I try to move my arms in another direction but I’m beaten into submission by a force much more powerful than me. Something jams against my cheek, pushing my head back so far that the bones of my neck grate against one another. I try to force it away, flailing my arms wildly, but then I hit against another hard thing. Everything is rocketing in only one direction, and I have no idea what lies at the very end. I don’t think I’ll find out. I know that before I reach the end, I’ll be dead.
My lungs are beating against my chest, exploding. My heart thuds in my ears. I look up, toward the ripples of sunlight. They’re just a blur now, because I’m moving too fast. I need to get there. Somehow. I reach my hand out, but instead of propelling myself upward, all I do is bring back a handful of soft, mucky stuff, like a tangled mane of hair. Like my mother’s hair. I make another attempt to scramble upward but I find myself just sinking deeper, and the lights above begin to fade with the burning sensation in my lungs.
The last thing that enters my mind is that it’s funny how we try so hard not to be like our parents, because that never works out. I’m going to die here, in a river. Just like her.
Chapter Eight
First there are the whispers.
I did …
What the …
That’s the …
I keep still, listening, but the words never come together to make sense. They’re just words, as if read from a dictionary, phrases that never mean anything. The morning’s biting cold stings my cheeks. I’m still wearing that impossibly uncomfortable wet suit, but instead of being near-frozen, I’m sweating underneath the layers of wool clothes. I open my eyes, and all I see is the gray, sad sky and black, bare branches above me. A large crow glides overhead, cawing ominously.
I’m alive. Amazingly. I must be. If I were dead, my head wouldn’t hurt as much, would it?
I sit up. As I do, my head throbs, begging me to rest, but I push against gravity and straighten. When I’m erect, my hair whips over my eyes. I pull it back, but it’s slimy in places, gritty in others, and knotted like seaweed. Where is my helmet?
The whispering continues, which is odd because I’m alone. But then it changes somehow—was it not whispering but the sound of rushing water? I look around. Water moving everywhere, all around me. No, no, not more water! I want to retch at the sight of it. When I swallow, there’s something thick and gritty in the back of my throat.