Beneath the Water

by Melinda Craig

  Beneath the Water

  The Triton Series

  © 2016 Melinda Craig

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Contents

  Asylum

  Waking Up

  Rescue

  Asylum

  Where does a person begin in a place like this? How does one explain what happened when you can’t possibly understand it yourself? There are many things I could say here at this moment. All would make me seem insane. Instead, I look at the psychiatrist in front of me and admit only what seems appropriate.

  “Things have been tense.”

  I hated our sessions; they were pointless. I only put up with them, hoping for a time when they would tell me those three magic words, “You are released.”

  The psychiatrist peered over his clipboard, glanced at me, and continued writing on his paper.

  He cleared his throat, “You realize I’m not your enemy, correct? I’ve been in many circumstances myself, and that is the reason I sit in this chair asking these questions. I remember what it’s like to be overwhelmed and at the breaking point. For this to work, you have to let me in.”

  He handed me a cup of warm tea. The heat from the mug warmed my hands and helped ease the icy chill in the room. Supposedly tea had a calming effect on nerves. I had yet to see any results from the drink, but the warmth was always welcome.

  He tried to soothe me by speaking calmly. He told me that eventually, all would be well. I knew better. Nothing was well. I drank the tea, happy for a reprieve from talking.

  I cleared my throat trying to think of something to say. Something that wouldn’t be too personal, something I could handle saying out loud. Nothing would come out that this man would want.

  “Myra, please, let me ask another question. Maybe not as personal, ok? We’ll start small and work our way to the bigger issues. Could you tell me what you felt like that morning when you woke? The one that led you here?”

  “I felt happy.”

  “Could you give more detail? Why do you think you were in that mood?”

  I fidgeted with the mug in my hands. I could rarely pinpoint the "why" to anything.

  “I guess it was because something felt right that day. I had this thought going over and over in my mind telling me all would go well. I know, right? That's not a thought I think anymore."

  "I see." He said, writing notes on his clipboard. "Please, continue."

  "I remember the sun being out, how the light broke through the blinds. I felt real and different.” I said.

  “Describe how you felt different.”

  How much more did he want? Did everything have to be analyzed and picked apart? I sighed.

  “I felt different because for once in a very long time, I had an overwhelming emotion besides sadness.”

  “Other than happiness, what emotion would you describe?”

  “Hope,” I said.

  “Hope? Explain please.”

  I hadn’t even said much. There my psychiatrist was, scribbling notes and analyzing every word. It amazed me that one person could hold so much power. My freedom was dependent on his opinion of my sanity.

  He poured more tea into my mug and thanked me for sharing my emotions. Apparently, this session was going well.

  He encouraged me to continue. I looked at his face and thought how much I disliked him. Perhaps that was unfair, but there it was.

  “You don’t like me do you, Myra?” He said.

  “No.” I didn't even blink. Blunt words came naturally, emotions, not so much.

  “Why?”

  "You hold the key to my freedom. You sit and write your notes, analyzing and overthinking every single word — all of this to determine if I'm fit for society. People shouldn't have that power. Some of us don't deserve to be locked away.”

  If my words surprised him, he didn’t show it.

  “I suppose that kind of power isn't fair, but society needs to be safe. People need to be safe. I'm not here to keep society safe from you. I'm here to keep you safe from you."

  That stung. He knew it too. I glared at the psychiatrist, realizing today would not be the day I was released. At this point, I wasn't sure that would ever happen.

  "Let me remind you again, Myra. I am here to help you, and for that to happen, we need to work through your past. You still haven't dealt with it. You know what I'm talking about.”

  I rubbed the locket that hung around my neck between my thumb and finger — the shell design smooth between my fingertips.

  Anxiety crept up my spine, spreading like a plant, stretching through my chest. My pretense of calm and composure barely held. I couldn’t breathe. I knew the signs. The anxiety attack had begun, and the battle against it was already lost.

  My heart pounded. My vision blurred. The only thoughts I could think were not coherent but filled with anger.

  Everything within me shouted not to trust this man. Yet, how did I have a choice? He would never let me out. It echoed in my brain. Trapped, alone forever. I couldn't breathe.

  I tried to do something, anything. The tea was still in my hands; it's warmth now faded. I lifted the cup to my lips but then thought better of it. I wasn't sure anything could work right at this moment, not even taking a drink. So I sat.

  I let the panic wash over me in waves. I closed my eyes. My breath escaping in gasps, heart beating frantically. I centered in on the breath, thinking of the rising and lowering of my chest. Slowly, the panic retracted its claws from around my lungs. My breathing returned to its normal pace. I opened my eyes, the panic attack now gone.

  The psychiatrist had witnessed my internal battle and told me to take a moment. He tried to be reassuring and tell me all was alright, but we both knew it was far from ok.

  Unclear memories circled my thoughts. I was drifting into another state of being. No wonder they wouldn't let me out.

  Pictures, perhaps memories, or bad dreams floated throughout my mind. The psychiatrist and another girl loomed in my head. Bars, doctors, and tanks filled with water flashed through my vision every time I blinked. Perhaps I was sitting here because I was in some part broken. I already felt insane.

  Much was foggy. There were too many memories I couldn’t access or understand. Some memories felt fresh and crisp but entirely wrong. They had to be because they didn't make sense with the world I lived in.

  The psychiatrist cleared his throat. I snapped back into the terrible reality that was my new normal.

  “Myra, it may be difficult to answer these next few questions, but I need you to try. We will break it into steps and do our best to keep the panic attacks from happening. I’ll be with you every step of the way."

  I nodded.

  "Let’s rewind to that afternoon that brought you here. Think about the drive and what happened from there.”

  I shook my head, trying to clear the fog. I didn't want to revisit that memory. A shiver ran down my spine. The thought of staying here one more day was a nightmare. I needed to wake up from this place. I took a breath and began my story.

  “That day started with me waking up to the world around me. I had felt empty and lost, but on this day, when I woke, it was like waking up from a dark fog. I took the opportunity to try and push myself. I decided to run to town. I desperately needed to anyways. I'd let my pantry get too low. Not that it mattered much; my appetite had dwindled ever since..." I took a shak
y breath. I felt the panic begin to creep its way back up.

  "It's ok," he said. "Listen to my voice. Start with what happened on the drive there."

  I focused on the drive and pushed the thought of loss behind. It helped. The panic lessened.

  "I passed a lake that I had never noticed before. The water was clear and a pretty shade of blue that felt like a dream. I took a detour towards the lake to get a closer look. It felt calming being next to the water."

  Flashes of unrealistic images hit my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to ignore them. Every blink was another flash.

  “Please, Myra, continue. I want to hear the story through your words.”

  I rubbed my locket before speaking, its shape a calm reassurance.

  “I parked on the side of the road. I decided to get out and wade in the water. When I neared the lake, an odd tingling sensation began to dance through my body. It felt like little bolts of electricity sending a current through the muscles in my feet and legs. I took my sandals off and approached the lake."

  "Can you tell me what you were thinking about as you got to the water?" He said.

  "I thought of my daughter. How she would like to dip her toes in the light waves that touched my feet.”

  I gasped with pain, all traces of hope bursting. The panic came forward and hit me with a force I was all too familiar with. She was gone. Her little hands that once reached for mine, they were no more. Her small feet that once danced through our home, they were forever gone. I would never see her again.

  I hated this psychiatrist. I hated him for making me remember.

  “You mention your daughter. Has her death made you feel a sense of unreality, Myra?”

  Pain seared through my chest. Her sweet face flashed through my mind. I could hear her laughter echoing in my thoughts.

  Anger coursed through me. The more it grew, the less sadness I felt. The world I lived in was a shell of what it used to be. My hands pressed against my face. It was all here, the memories, the pain, all in my mind. I moved my hands from my eyes and stared at the psychiatrist in front of me.

  “You want to know if losing my daughter has caused a sense of unreality. Are you serious? How would you handle losing your only child? I didn't go to the lake to drown myself. I know without a doubt that I wasn't trying to cause harm. The rest of the memory is what doesn't make sense.”

  “No one is saying you did. I'm trying to help you put the pieces back together. Please, continue your story.”

  Again with the fog. I rested my chin on my hands. Why was I here? I didn't remember trying to take my life, yet that's what they told me when I was admitted in this place. Everything felt off.

  The psychiatrist tried to soothe me with another glass of tea. I declined his offer. I was tired of him pretending to understand and connect with me.

  Darkness filled me. I couldn’t understand why I still spoke, but the story of that day flowed from my mouth.

  “The hope from earlier disappeared with my grief and thoughts of Lauren. She was by my side only a few short months ago, and her absence was more than I could handle. If you want to know what I was thinking, I’ll tell you. I thought of the lake and the current. I looked out towards the deep water and briefly contemplated sinking forever. I decided to swim and clear my head instead.”

  Would the psychiatrist recommend my stay to be longer? Surely he could see that I made the better choice.

  A strange fog still shadowed parts of my mind. Some memories were clear and all too real. I tried to remember, but only pieces of memory drifted in and out, none staying long enough for me to hold onto.

  There was that flash again — the one with bars and tanks of water. I'd close my eyes and see it. Strange needles haunted me. My sanity felt barely intact. I was pulled back into the present by the psychiatrist's voice.

  “Please continue. You may be on the brink of healing, even if you don’t recognize it. Hearing all the details will help me understand how you are working through this grief.”

  I still didn’t like him. I hated feeling trapped, and anxiousness plagued me with every question he asked. At the same time, my mind felt that dreadful fog and my tongue was too loose. Words were now floating out of my mouth without conscious effort.

  The psychiatrist put his clipboard down and gently took the mug from my hands. He walked to a small microwave that stood on one corner of his desk. He set the cup in it and reheated the drink and then he pulled the steaming mug out, placing it back into my hands.

  "Drink. You'll feel better." He said and smiled as he sat back down.

  I almost had. The mug was towards my mouth, but his smile stopped me. Perhaps it would have worked if his eyes held more depth to them. This man, he was empty of emotion. He cleared his throat to remind me he was waiting to hear my finished account of that day. I could analyze him later. The truth was, I didn't need to like him. I needed to get his approval to be released. I continued talking.

  “I waded further in, letting the water reach my waist. My jeans were soaked, but it didn't matter. The water made me feel alive. I was about to swim further out when I heard a little girl’s voice. I couldn’t see anyone, but I knew she was there. That voice reminded me of Lauren. The girl, whoever she was, beckoned me to find her. Then, she appeared in front of me."

  "Go on."

  "A part of me was sad. I suppose I wanted it to be Lauren, but this girl was not her."

  "This girl, what did she look like?"

  "She had gold ringlets and unusual violet eyes. She reached her hand out and told me to follow as she dove under the water. I did.” I said.

  The psychiatrist continued taking notes. Every few lines he wrote, he would stop and glance at me. I felt a chill run through my body.

  “Continue.” He said.

  “As I dove, I felt the sensation of electricity again. It was bouncing, or maybe shooting? They felt like bolts of energy throughout my legs.”

  “I’m curious about this electricity, was it painful?”

  “No, not really. It was more like a long stretch of unused muscles. I followed the girl. We just kept going down, and I remember thinking it was odd that I couldn’t see the bottom of the lake.”

  “I see.” He said, jotting down more notes. I could only hope the notes were in my favor and not against me.

  “The electricity was barely noticeable by the time I reached her. She told me her name. I can't seem to remember it now. She looked at me and said she knew who I was already.”

  "She said this to you under the water?"

  I stopped, realizing how stupid that sounded. No wonder I was here.

  Waking Up

  “Myra, I know this is hard, but you have made huge strides in your progress today. We need to finish discussing the rest of the details.”

  I nodded. Maybe, just maybe, I would have a chance to prove I didn’t need to be here.

  “As I spoke with the girl, I had this strange feeling. I noticed…” I shook my head. It didn’t make sense.

  I felt a tap on my arm and looked up to see the psychiatrist leaning forward, uncomfortably close.

  “You noticed what, Myra? Go on. Take a drink of your tea to calm your nerves and let’s continue working through this.”

  I looked at the drink in my hands. I wanted him to stop shoving it in my face. It smelled strange. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? I looked up, and the psychiatrist avoided my gaze.

  “What’s in the tea you gave me?” I said.

  “It’s chamomile. Your nerves have been on edge, and I wanted to offer something to help.”

  Where was the sympathy I heard in his voice earlier? The face that stared back at me held no kindness. A shiver ran down my spine. How much time had passed since I last drank this tea? My mind felt clearer than it had in days.

  I lifted the cup to my lips as if taking a drink. The psychiatrist watched me far too eagerly. I flung the tea in his face. The mug split into pieces as it
hit the floor.

  He didn’t react, not even a grimace. Fear gripped my stomach as he stood. He stepped towards me and stopped, then as if nothing extraordinary happened, he grabbed a paper towel and wiped his face.

  I couldn’t stay here. I slowly pushed my chair back and stood. With my back against the wall, I glanced around. The room held one door and a single small window. I would only have one chance.

  The psychiatrist seemed unfazed. He stood from his chair once more and held out his hand. My back was as far against the wall it would go. His hand dropped, his smile now strained.

  “Well, I see we may have pushed you too far today. I recommend a longer stay. Let’s try again in a month.”

  Throwing rationality out the window, I told myself to hit and run. I stepped forward, but something strange happened. When I moved, I fell. My legs wouldn’t work. No, that couldn’t be right. I began to pull myself forward with my arms. The psychiatrist still standing a few feet away and now laughing. What was going on?

  Suddenly the movement of my arms slowed, and it was as though I was floating. The last of the fog lifted from my mind, and I saw the psychiatrist in a new light. Where were the suit and clipboard? Where was the chair he sat in only moments before? Everything had changed.

  More thrashing and a surge of pain shot through me. I screamed. My head, my eyes, both hurt. I shut my lids tightly trying to make things right again, but when I opened them, the walls were no longer there.

  Rock surrounded me. I felt its jagged surface under my hands and looked down. My legs, my legs were not legs. Where was I? What was this?

  The room that stood here just a moment ago was nothing more than a cave, a cave partly submerged under water. Where my legs should have been, was a tail. My lower torso was long and covered in black scales. Each scale connected, merged, into a long turquoise fin…a fin that felt powerful ridged with spikes.

  I felt clearer than I had in days in spite of none of this making any sense. Where was the psychiatrist now? I glanced around the cave, but it appeared empty. A rope ladder draped against one of the wall’s jagged surfaces. I looked up to see where it led, but it went so high that I couldn’t see the end. Separate levels were part of the cave, and the ladder went past them all. Perhaps the man who was playing psychiatrist was hiding up there. I looked down at my tail. There was no way I could follow.