Bubbles

Chapter 1

For as long as she could remember, the girl had only known Ocean.

Perhaps that wasn't quite right. She knew more than Ocean – she knew that there was Coral and Fish and other things, too – but she also knew that all this was inside Ocean.

The girl was peculiar. She lived alone. She didn't know how long she had been alive. She didn't know what 'alive' meant. She knew no words, no language, for why would she need to? She spoke to no one and thus did not need to be able to speak.

This is not to say that she was unintelligent. In fact, she understood much. She knew what many things were, she simply did not know the words for them.

The girl was also peculiar in other ways. She could not hurt or ache or burn. She could not get sick, or die. She could not be cut or bruised. She did not breathe. She did not eat. She hadn't been born. Hadn't aged. Or, at least, if she had, she couldn't remember it. She was not alive at all, really. She simply existed.

But perhaps the strangest thing about the girl was that she could not feel.

Happiness, sadness, horror, rage... all of these things were not of her world. She didn't really even know that they existed. She was not saddened by the fact that she was emotionless – indeed, she could not be saddened at all. It was a strange, meaningless existence.

The girl was beautiful – long, silky brown hair, porcelain perfect skin, freckles dotting her face and shoulders. Her figure was small and slight. Her lips were red and full. But her eyes were perhaps the strangest thing about her appearance – large, framed by dark lashes. One was the deep green of seagrass, the other was so blue that it seemed she had trapped the water and sky beneath her cornea, bright and intense. Her body was naked. What would she need clothing for? The effect was beautiful, yes – but frightening. Strange. Like an alien – too perfect, bordering on terrifying. She looked so fragile – breakable, like a tiny tap could shatter her. Perfect, yes – but perfect like a priceless piece of art. Touching her would seem unthinkable.

The girl was invulnerable – unbreakable, in body and in heart. She swam, and swam, and allowed this world to flow by her. She didn't care. She didn't care about anything. She was barely sentient, barely alive. She simply was. Nothing more, nothing less.

The girl was empty. She didn't feel bad about it, of course – but it was there, in the back of her mind, that there was nothing inside her. She had nothing. She was nothing.

That was how it always was.

And how it always would be.

And that was fine. Perfect. She didn't know another way.

She didn't know that she could want another way.