Blue

Up to the Throat

'Do you think she'll lose it?' he asked Curtis.

'Lose what?'

'That.... I don't know how to describe it...' Adam closed his eyes and took in a deep, settling breath, 'The tenacity.'

'I don't know. Can you lose that? It's always been stronger in her than in me, but, then, I thought that about you too. It gets bled out of you, I think. A drop a battle. When you've been fighting for too long, it just... runs out. And then you're doing it because you have to. It's horrible, isn't it?' The guilt was written all over Curtis' face. Adam understood intimately. This was a loss that brought only guilt.

He closed his eyes again, breathing so deeply that he felt like he couldn't breathe at all. The air was stagnant. It wouldn't stay in his lungs anymore; it just bounced around inside of him before escaping from his body. They turned their attention back to the fish.

The world felt even more quiet that night as Adam laid in his cot. There was something ominous lingering in the air around Adam. It crept around him, tighter than the blanket he was wrapped in. It crawled around his neck and gave it a light squeeze. He shivered, trying to shake off the feeling. He always felt uncomfortable before a battle. This was a familiar edge. There was nothing to be worried about. His stomach didn't seem to be capable of understanding this, though, and it churned and churned. Tongues of lightning touched down all across his stomach lining as the dancing rage of stormy discomfort played out inside of him long into the night. It was a long time before he was able to sleep.

He was dreaming again, that same terrible dream about his mom, only this time, he knew he was dreaming.He could feel the robotic tug of each of his limbs, pulling him to the beach, jerking him back in again like a doll. He could hear that beautiful, glorious song, the silver threads of the siren song, carried towards him on a soft sea breeze. The song moved him, coaxed and tugged him. It was gentle in its beckoning, or, maybe, he just couldn't fight it anymore. It filled him up and urged him forward, sending him stumbling across the sand. His feet kicked grains up into the air. They dropped back down to the earth in artsy shapes, like curling cat tails and twisting snakes. His head was completely free of the compulsion driving his body into the surf and he raised it, so the moon could drape his entire face in its embrace as he wandered towards the siren's song. He opened his mouth and breathed in the salt air. He missed the beach so much.

"Adam? Adam!" Chase's voice cut through the air from behind him. This wasn't unusual; he often dreamed that Chase was there to stop him from drowning. Wishful thinking, perhaps.

Chase's hands caught onto Adam's arms. He was tugging, pulling, losing his grip like Adam was made of some kind of slippery glass instead of flesh.

"Adam! Adam!" he cried. He sounded so horribly upset. Adam turned his head, but could only catch peripheral glimpses of him. His hair, his shoulder. Never his face. Adam couldn't turn his body.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he told Chase, but he didn't know why. Was he apologizing for not being able to see him? He was nearing the water now. His feet walked slowly into the edges of the water, meeting the freezing cold surf. He drew in a soft breath.

"I'm sorry," he said again, "Let go. Let go." And Chase did. His fingers slipped off of Adam. He couldn't hold on. He called Adam's name still, but soon, all Adam could hear again was the vibrant song of the siren, luring him to his death again. At the first big wave, his body curled under itself with a crash of white foam. He shuddered and coughed as the waves batted at his body, but his body paid no mind to the force of the water. It continued to move desperately forward. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep the water out of his eyes. He was choking and coughing on sea water. The taste of the ocean filled his mouth, all salty brine. His throat was burning. His body switched swiftly from walking to swimming; he swam out towards the full moon in sure, even strokes. The great pale rock looked down on him impassively. It was unblinking in its observance of his death.