Truly Elemental: And Other Retro Faerie Tales

Drown

Carrie was obsessed.

That's why she did it.

There was something alive in Leed Lake. She wanted to catch it, so she used herself as bait.

We lived in a small town, lodged at the foot of a mountain like someone rolled it down from the peak, letting it splatter houses and streets and people every which way when it struck the valley. It was the kind of town that was unified in everything. The kind that would linch you up if you suggested there were more flavors of ice cream than just plain vanilla.

The kind of town that had logging trucks and a monster in the lake.

In school, we pledged allegiance to the flag TWICE a day. On Sunday, the pastor preached TWO services, because God couldn't get his message across in one. There were a lot of 'twos' in our town.

One boy for each girl.

One girl for each boy.

Two STOP signs at every intersection, just in case you missed the first.

TWO by TWO by TWO.

And then there was Carrie.

Carrie was a soloist.

She acted the lead in Midland High's musicals, and, on Saturday nights, she sang "Splish Splash" with the band Sweet Hickey at the Tuesday Hill Diner.

She flew solo at school, at parties. And I, the chameleon, watched her from afar. Sometimes, I did her math homework for free. Carrie was special. She wore glasses like it was no big deal and dissected frogs in science class, easy as cutting cake. I watched her up close then—we shared a table. I watched her sort tiny organs the size of peas, setting them up on her fingertips, examining, curious.

I loved her.

In the end, I got too close.

In the end, love couldn't win over nature.

It was the song that infected her. That's what started it all, that's why she did it. Walking into Leed's in a slip and bobby socks.

Carrie was obsessed.

The night of the senior bonfire, she met the monster. Standing solo by the lake, alone on the craggy shoreline with a pyre of orange sparks at her back and a well of ink at her feet. After that, she stopped singing.

I knew it was because of the song. The one the monster sang. Because her songs—Carrie's songs—were why I'd noticed her.

I told her it was wrong. That she couldn't die that way because it wasn't spectacular enough. Not for her. Other kids used their mother's psych pills or their father's licensed revolver. Boring. She, Carrie, deserved a blaze. Ninety miles per hour snaking dust and hauling lead.

She deserved a show. Something public and whiz-bang. Turning blue under the water, her chilled lips parted, was too quiet. Too much the obtuse obituary in the rear of the county paper:

But she said she'd be fine. She wasn't going to DIE. She wanted the thing in the water and she said it wanted her. She'd swim out when the time was right, and wait with a rope to pull it in—because no one believed the monster existed. It belonged in folktales and on the sets of chintzy shot glasses gathering dust in the General Store.

She wanted proof it was there. Proof she wasn't crazy.

I told her, the police would drag the murky bed for her body, and pull her in the same way if she tried. I told her: the monster didn't want her...Not the way she thought it did.

Not with that side of my heart. Not in that skin.

I wanted her in other ways. I wanted it to be just us. I always held my breath when she kissed my cheek to thank me, and I always closed my eyes when she sang. We were soft and young and spent our days yearning for sodas and starlight—For love. She was a normal highschool girl. And so was I, sometimes...

When my feet were dry.

I couldn't STOP her going on her dawn visits to the water. So I said the worst things I could think of to keep her safe. I told her the song, the voice, was just in her head. And she nodded like she heard me and kept on going out to the lake to sit and listen and draw ugly scribbles in her diary.

She drew the things the voice said, and the pictures the song showed her—

she brought them to life.

My voice didn't matter. She only heard me when I changed. And then, I wasn't me.

December was a cruel month for water. She walked into the lake on a Tuesday, when the morning sun flamed gold behind a macramé of grey cotton clouds. The shore was hard-packed frost and she left no footprints behind.

Only a skirt.

A blouse.

Her saddle shoes.

I'd told her that night, it was only me she heard, singing. But she laughed and wouldn't listen.

So I drowned her like she wanted. She didn't hold her breath. She didn't close her eyes. And by then, it didn't matter who I was,

because it was just the two of us.

♛ A/N: I seem to have a thing for water fey and drowning...Hopefully, I'll get a chance to finish the longer and less wet shorts I've got in the works, but for now, have a filler 'sode (because I like my small town settings too much).

Dedicated to the ever-bold OtherEvilTwin. Not only are you lovely, but you play in wonderfully dark worlds. High-five for the undead nation and the crap-holes our post-apocalyptic heroines live in.

Thanks again to everyone who reads and ★ votes ★. You are the BEST.