Incandescence

18: The Rage Inside

I feel like I can't breathe, that I'm being strangled at the neck or, worse, drowning.

             Memories of a day spent at Second Beach in Vancouver whilst visiting Aunt Marian float back to me. Lena had been the daring one back then, always up for trying new things.

             "It's just water," she said, ushering me with her hand when I hesitated by the borderline, little granules of sand wedged between my toes. "C'mon April, don't be chicken!"

             "I'm not!" I said, her words hitting a chord – as she knew fine well they would. Hell-bent on proving my fearlessness, I marched right across the invisible barrier between the ocean and the sand, as fast as my eight-year-old sandaled feet could carry me.

             At first it had been fun. Lena had splashed at me and giggled when I tried to retaliate. Our parents and aunt had watched on from their beach towels, but then when their attention drifted back to their own private conversation, things took a turn for the worst. Lena swam out further than any of the other kids our age had ever dared to; and I, not wanting to live with the insufferable title of 'chicken' hanging over my head like a flashing neon signpost outside a bar, followed suit. A fatal mistake on my part.

             I'll never forget the way it felt as the tide came in, whooshing over me and pushing me under. By then Dad had taught me many things – how to play baseball, ride a bike and kick a boy so he'd never bother me again being foremost on that list – but one thing he'd forgotten to do was show me how to swim. The saltwater posed an impenetrable obstruction as I tried to shove my way to the surface. Panic was in my bones, weighing me down like an anchor and the more I struggled, the further down I drifted.

             It almost feels as though I'm fighting the tide now as I attempt to shrug off the terror leaden in my bones. I'll be able to breathe better and think clearer if I can just stop myself from panicking; I'll be more composed, in a better place to float back to the surface.

             Voices drift up from the far end of the hall and I start, swinging my dorm room door shut – and locking myself out. Alice's warning is still balled in my trembling fist. I conceal it in my shirt pocket.

             "Hell no! I'd make one badass Wicked Witch of the West – even Erik said so."

             I turn in the direction of the too-familiar voice and make out my sister bounding down the hallway, with . . . oh, please no.

             "How is he, by the way? Are they still letting him come back on Monday?" Alice asks her. Neither girl has noticed me yet; I could easily slip back into my dorm without causing a scene. But the sight of that malicious witch has me seeing red and I'm not sure I want to cower away. That would give her power over me – and I can't have her knowing how much I'm shaking inside.

             "Yeah," Lena says, twirling a loose strand of her plait. "I was talking to him last night on the phone. They're letting him outta the hospital on Saturday."

             "That's great." By now they're only a couple feet away from my room. Alice looks up and spots me standing there, shocked still, but doesn't draw Lena's attention. "But anyway, like I was saying – it totally sucks that they've cancelled the Halloween disco this year. I had the coolest costume planned!"

             "What were you going as?"

             "A zombie; but it was a different kinda zombie than the usual 'I'm gonna eat your brains, bitch' type. Cool, unique," her lips curve upwards in a cruel smile, "but still utterly gross."