Apricot Press

You are drowning, you think. You just wanted to touch all the ladders in the pool. That’s why you walked around the three-foot deep area and climbed up on each of them. It seemed like a fun game to your five-year-old brain. Every time you touched one, you would look back so your grandmother could give you a thumbs up. It was a little reward. You grasped the second to last one and realised the noise that you were escaping was quieter now. Grandmother still gave you a thumbs up when you looked back at her, but the chatter of the rest of your family had calmed. You could see the very last ladder across the pool. You were compelled to walk towards it, not realizing the water level had crept up your neck.

Your feet can’t touch the ground. Surprisingly you do not panic. You keep trying to walk forward, only kicking around the water. You wonder if your family has noticed your laughter has stopped.  Eventually you stop kicking all together.

You begin to burn. You feel your feet change first, the toes flattening out, webbed together and scrawny. Iridescent scales crop up on your hands. The water can’t touch them. When the side of your neck begins to burn, you panic. You grab at your eyes and come away bloody. You see claws where nails used to be. You scramble. You attempt to scream. Nothing but bubbles emerge. You think, This is how I die. A fish who can’t swim.

You are forced up out of the water. Your ears pop with the speed of it. Your aunt noticed that you were gone. She came in the pool after you. You take in a frantic gulp of air, trying to adjust to the lack of liquid around you. The chatter of the family fills your ears as if they had never stopped talking. Auntie goes back in the water. You are normal again. You realise you had lost the game you were playing.

When you finally sit up and look around you, you spot your grandmother. You wonder if she had noticed your transformation. The question is in your eyes. She just smiles and gives you another thumbs up.

Photo credit: Marc-Antoine Roy