Just Breathe [bxb]

i. whatever we lose

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me),
It's always our self we find in the sea.
— e. e. cummings

❥

I still dream of the ocean.

The taste of saltwater. The rising panic as I realized I can't see my father anymore, that the beach is farther away than it was. The pull of the riptide under me.

The knowledge that I'm going to die out here.

I'm still sixteen, in the dreams, wearing a one-piece swimsuit and a pair of shorts that my mother falsely attributes to modesty. I haven't gone on testosterone yet, haven't even realized what my feelings about my gender and my body mean. And it strikes me, then, that I'm going to die as a woman, that my parents are going to put me in a dress in my coffin.

I don't want to die wrong.

This gives me another burst of energy that tastes like desperation, and I kick my legs and try to swim harder, but the current is too strong, and I'm pulled under again.

That's when I feel it. A hand, against mine. There's something different about the hand, something strange, but I don't know what it is, and I'm too panicked to care. The only thing I know, the only thing I care about, is this sign of life.

I grab on tight to the hand and pray for survival. But I'm deep underwater, now, and I can't hold my breath much longer.

I open my eyes.

There's a person in front of me, pale, with white hair floating above their head, and pale blue eyes. He leans forward, presses his lips to mine — and suddenly, oxygen floods my lungs. I breathe, inhaling desperately.

The man — at least, I think he's a man — smiles at me, showing off sharp, pointed teeth.

I should be scared.

Instead, I hold his hand tighter.

He kisses me again, filling my lungs once more, and that's when I see his tail.

I knew he wasn't human. No human had those slitted, pale eyes, or the claws, or webs between his fingers. No human could have saved me like this. But it's his tail that makes me sure.

He's a merman.

The realization sinks in, but before I can do anything, his tail flicks, and he turns easily in the water, my hand still clasped tightly in his. He pulls me through the water, faster than any human could ever hope to swim. I hold tightly to his hand, fearing that if I let go, I will be lost once more.

And the next thing I know, there's sand under my feet, and I'm in the shallows.

He lets go of my hand.

When I woke, I found myself reaching for someone who was no longer there.

The dream has plagued me since I washed up on the beach to find that no one cared about me. They all had their phones or cameras out, taking videos of me and the merman who saved my life. It was only when my father arrived, shouting for them to give me space, that people seemed to realize that I almost died.

The videos went viral, spreading around Twitter and Instagram and Facebook, featured on the evening news. I wasn't the focus of it, though.

It was the merman, or mermaid, as some people still called him. Finally, there was proof, real proof of the rumors that merrow still roamed the ocean. Archeologists had found evidence that there were human-like sea creatures that existed, but those were all thousands, millions of years old. The fact that at least one merrow was still out there was a revelation, a scientific breakthrough.

I became famous, not that I wanted it.

And everyone knew my name after my mom convinced me to do an interview with the New York Times. I was too shy to go on tv, but I did talk on the phone to a reporter.

I hated it. I hated the questions, the attention, the fact that my face was plastered all over the internet.

A face that I didn't even want to look at.

I opened my eyes to the blue of my apartment walls, the scent of fresh paint still lingering in the room. I'd just signed the lease, my first place. For the past four years, I'd been living off student loans, staying in the dorms at college, or couch surfing with my friend's families.

But now, I have a place of my own. It's a tiny place, a one-room studio apartment, but it's mine.

No one recognizes me anymore. No one expects Oliver Galloway to be the girl who was saved by a merman. Even if they do know I'm trans, I'm careful about my deadname. No one in my new life knows it. And I planned on keeping it that way.

I kicked off the thick, plush duvet covering me, and immediately began shivering. I was used to cold, northern, Michigan winters, but that didn't make waking up into a freezing room any easier. The urge to bury myself underneath the green and black blanket and go back to sleep was strong, but I resisted.

I started my new job today, after all, and I had to be on time. So I forced myself up, my feet landing on the cold, bare wood of the floor.

A rug, I thought, tiredly running a hand through my short, bleached blond hair. I need a rug.

I got to my feet, yawning, and stumbled into the bathroom. My reflection was waiting to greet me, green eyes with dark circles underneath blinking into the mirror. I examined myself in the mirror, running a hand over the scars on my chest. Still a bit raw and pink, but healing well.

As I took in my appearance, I couldn't help but smile.

Finally, I looked the way I felt.

It took years, scrounging and saving every penny I could, busking on the street between classes and jobs, selling art commissions online, but I could finally afford top surgery. I got it about six months ago, and while the recovery was rough, I didn't regret a second of it.

I caught myself staring at the scars, tracing the outlines, and glanced away. I always felt a little bit narcissistic, admiring myself, but I couldn't help it. After spending years hating my body, I could finally love it the way it was meant to be loved.

Shaking my head, I opened the cabinet above the sink. Grabbing my toothbrush, I started washing up for the day.

Dressed in my caribbean blue scrubs, I put on my waterproof shoes, and grabbed my lunch out of the fridge, putting it in a black canvas messenger bag along with what I usually carried — a tablet, my wallet, a bottle of water.

I was ready for my first day at Michigan Ocean Adventure as their newest marine vet tech.

Of course, there was something MOA didn't know about me.

I picked up the dark, thick-rimmed glasses, and slipped them on. Then I flipped the switch, checking my laptop to make sure the tiny camera in them was recording.

The merrow abuse at Ocean Adventure was rumored, but never proven.

Until now.

I was going to blow their cover stories wide open.

It was the least I could do.

After all, it was my fault they had a merrow exhibit at all. My fault that merrow were being studied, and used to entertain, like animals.

I had to fix it somehow. And if that meant breaking an NDA, and using the fame that I hated?

So be it.