Listen to the Water | FULL SERIES | Wattys 2022 Shortlist | ✔

(39) Ande: Rest in Silence

I can't do this anymore.

It sinks in from the moment I see Sar's admission after a question by Taiki that I didn't—couldn't—intervene on before he got slapped in the face by an answer he wasn't expecting. I can't bring myself to feel surprised at who Sar really is. It makes too much sense in light of everything, from the injuries they took in Rapal, to what they've dodged questions on, to what puts them into panic attacks. Now that the truth is out, my body simply refuses to feel surprise. Like there's a part of me that already knew.

Or maybe that's just the exhaustion sinking in.

I watch Sar disintegrate, but I feel like I'm seeing it through the distortions of moving water, from an island's length away. They need help. I know they do. And I know I could offer it. But a devastating tiredness creeps over me when I even think of stepping forward. It roots me to the spot and strips me of my capacity to think of what I might say. I've spent so long looking after others that I've neglected myself. It's catching up to me now. And none of that stops the guilt from consuming me as I turn away, retreat to the rocks, and leave Taiki with the fallout of what he's helped cause. Even if I had the chance, I wouldn't tell him "I told you so." He already knows.

I acknowledge the guilt and then tell it to throw itself in the canyon. That brief respite makes room for other, less acknowledged emotions to find their way in. I've been tired for longer than just this trip, though having Sar along and having to stand between them and Taiki certainly exacerbated it. I try to trace the feeling. I can't find the start of it. At first I'm sure it must be when I realized I'd been treating Taiki cruelly, but when I think back to that point, the feeling goes back further still.

I was still a self-centered brat at that point. The memory makes me laugh in a painful kind of way; the kind of laugh that only encourages the tears prickling my eyes right now, almost intangible in the ambient saltiness of this deep, cold water. I was a self-centered brat, but Makeba's destruction of that tendency didn't create the chronic helper mentality I've been wearing ever since. It only uncovered something that was already there. Part of why I wanted to return to my island was so I could feel special again, but even that was a cloak on another motivation. I wanted to feel useful again. I missed dancing because it represented what I did to help my people, which made me feel like I had a meaningful role in the world.

It's the same reason I latched onto the idea of being the Singer, once I got over my aversion to being a Kel. With my role as a sun-dancer stripped away and my people in danger both in and out of the water, being special again meant I could help.

It makes me want to laugh again. I believed I could help.

I tried to help everyone, and now here I am, curled up against a rock at the bottom of the ocean, without energy to help even the Kel right in front of me.

And why should I?

It's been lingering around the edges, but acknowledging it brings the feeling out. I've been breaking my back trying to keep even this group together ever since we picked up Sar. I've been fighting Taiki just to obtain semi-decent treatment of another Kel—even one we needed in order to find the Seers. I've been proving myself to Makeba, putting on a brave face for my people, letting Taiki's people put their hope in me. In all that, where has there been someone who would take care of me?

It's the same dilemma that caused me so much pain back on my island, and led in part to the ego I developed there. That ego was a defense mechanism. If I was superior to people, it meant I didn't need them, and I didn't need them because that hurt less than needing them and having them put me on a pedestal anyway. I didn't lose that need. I just pretended to, and I should have clued into that when I melted down the moment my father's arms wrapped around me again. I wish he was here right now. But I know he would tell me he's proud of me and that I'll do great things, when it turns out I can't do anything at all.