Chapter 3 #2
I sit at the edge, legs dangling over the side, and stare out at the horizon. The water stretches out forever, dark blue fading to gray where it meets the sky. A few boats dot the distance—white sails catching the afternoon light.
It's quiet here. Peaceful.
I hate how much I need that right now.
The water is dark. Deep. I can't see the bottom. It's black beneath me, reflecting the sky but revealing nothing underneath. Hiding everything.
I lean forward slightly, looking down, and my reflection stares back at me. Distorted by the ripples. Face wavering. Eyes too dark. Mouth too tight. Rippling.
My chest tightens. The air won't come. Won't fill my lungs the way it should.
The reflection shifts, and for a second—just a second—I'm not looking at the bay. I'm looking at tile. Bright white tile and fluorescent lights and water that smells like chemicals. Sharp. Burning. Wrong.
"You need to learn to swim, Maximus."
Linda's voice cuts through the memory before I can stop it. Sharp. Impatient. High-pitched. Grating. The sound of it like nails on a chalkboard even years later.
I was eleven. Small for my age. Scared of everything. Scared of her most of all.
She'd dragged me to the community pool, her fingers digging into my upper arm hard enough to leave bruises, insisted I was being ridiculous, that every kid needed to know how to swim.
But lessons cost money we didn't have.
So she taught me herself.
Or tried to.
"Stop being a baby. Just put your head under." Her voice echoing off the tile walls. Bouncing. Multiplying.
I didn't want to. The water was too cold. Too deep. It burned my nose. Made my eyes sting. I couldn't touch the bottom. I couldn't feel the ground. Couldn't feel anything solid. Just water. Just nothing.
"I said put your head under."
Her hand on the back of my neck. Fingers tangling in my hair. Nails scraping against scalp. Pushing. Holding. Holding. Holding. Not letting go no matter how much I thrashed.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Everything was blue-green and chlorine and panic. My lungs burned—a fire in my chest that spread and spread and spread— and I thrashed but her grip was iron and the water was everywhere, filling my nose, my mouth—
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
She pulled me up, yanking me by my hair, and I gasped, choking on chlorine and panic. Coughing. Sputtering. Crying even though I knew that would make it worse.
"Again."
"No—please—" My voice was small. Broken. It didn't matter.
"Again."
The second time was worse. The third time, I stopped fighting. Just went limp. Let it happen. Let the water fill my lungs and the darkness creep in at the edges of my vision because fighting only made her hold me under longer.
I blink. Once. Twice. Force myself back to the present.
The bay is calm. No chlorine. No Linda. No hands on the back of my neck. No water in my lungs. Just air. Just sky. Just the gentle lap of waves against weathered wood.
But my hands are shaking. Trembling so hard I have to press them flat against the dock, fingers splayed, trying to ground myself.
I pull my knees to my chest—making myself small, making myself safe—and focus on breathing.
In. Out. In. Out. Count it. Make it deliberate. Four counts in. Hold for four. Four counts out. Hold for four. Again. Again. Again.
It's fine. I'm fine.
The water can't hurt me here.
I sit there until the sun starts to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Gold bleeding into red bleeding into purple. The clouds catch fire. The water reflects it all back, turning the bay into liquid sunset.
It's beautiful. Breathtaking. The kind of thing that should make me feel something other than hollow.
I pull out my phone and take a picture. The screen captures it, but it's not the same. Never is. The colors are too flat. The scale is wrong. But I save it anyway. Not for anyone else. Just for me.
Proof that I was here. That this is real. That I existed in this moment, in this place, even if I don't belong.
When the light fades, when the sky goes from purple to indigo to black, I head back to the house.
I don't see any of the brothers that night.
I heat up leftovers from the fridge—some kind of pasta—rigatoni in what tastes like homemade marinara sauce, way better than anything I'd make for myself, and eat alone at the kitchen island.
Sitting on a leather barstool that's taller and more comfortable than any chair I've ever owned.
The marble is cold under my forearms. The pasta is still good even though I can barely taste it.
Then I retreat to my room, climbing the stairs as quietly as possible, hoping I don't run into anyone, lock the door, and try to write.
The blank page stares back at me. Cursor blinking. Blinking. Blinking. Mocking.
Nothing comes.
I close my laptop and pull out my diary instead. The worn leather. The soft pages. The one place I can be honest.
Day one at the Graves estate. Atlas gave me a key and a tour. The room is nice. Too nice. I don't know how to exist in a place like this.
I sat on the dock today. Thought about Linda. Thought about drowning.
I don't know why I do this to myself. Why I let the past follow me everywhere I go.
Margot comes back tomorrow. Maybe it'll be easier when she's here.
I stop writing. My hand cramps. The pen feels heavy.
Stare at the words. They look wrong. Too hopeful. Too naive.
Cross out the last line. Hard. Black ink scoring through the words until they're unreadable.
It won't be easier. But at least I won't be alone.