Trying to Remember

Dreaming of Screaming

               Dark waves push at the brown sands.  Webbed seaweed crumples into brown bundles as the tide comes in. Small, bright seashells list from side to side under the continuous rush of water. It is all so beautiful.

               Unfortunately, statistics fly through my head, numbers upon numbers erasing the beauty. Eleven people died in the water the last two years, three of them were under four years old. Two died of asphyxiation, one of suffocation, a couple of them died of jellyfish stings. Jellyfish, in New Jersey.  I envy people who can splash around like children at the beach.   When I told my mother she said, “Don’t compare yourself to other people", and I always listen to my mother.She's right, I don’t need to compare myself to other people....especially  if there's no one else there for me to compare to. So, I only go to empty, abandoned beaches. The beaches that are too ugly, polluted, or remote for chirpy children, beaming parents, or lovesick couples. I go everywhere- lakes, ponds, even a river or two. I just need the water.  I need it like other people need shopping, good grades, or a parent’s stamp of approval. I need it because I can't have it anymore.

               The water pulls me in, but my brain pulls me back. I just freeze. I’ve been to doctors, psychologists, even a guidance counselor that seemed to understand. They all said a variation of the same thing. They said it’s all in my head. I’ve either repressed a memory, or I have an unusual phobia for water. Aquaphobia is the official term. But dad isn't around much and mom doesn't lie. I don't have any memory terrible enough for me to repress. I used to love the water. I still do, but now I'm too scared to go in.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and it's driving me insane.

               I don’t go to school anymore either.  Gym class is too traumatic. There is no way I am going to swim every day in May. My mother puts up with it like a trooper, even though home schooling basically means we would have to get together well. Extremely well. Home schooling also means my social abilities, stunted at best, are almost nonexistent.  This worries my father to no end.  He is a firm believer that social ties are what move one up in the world.  I disagree, frecuently and about almost everything. Deep, deep, deep down I know he means well.  We just happen to differ in opinion on just about everything just about all the time.Speaking of people who mean well , tomorrow is my latest therapist’s attempt to treat me.  His name is Charles Drindle, a tall, guant looking man in his thirties with shrewd grey eyes and long, spindly  fingers. I can’t wait to see him,really.

                                                                       ***

               This is insulting. Tepid water, plastic bags, and dead, floating fish greet me at seven thirty in the freakin morning.

               “What is this?” I ask Mr. Drindle

               “Tell me, does this frighten you in any way Fabian?” He asks, tapping his abnormally long fingers together.

               “I don’t know," I begin slowly,staring at the slush in front of me,"This is disgusting."

               “Try to think about it.” He says, staring intently at my face.

               “Well, the water's apalling obviously, but it's not terrifying.” I say surprised. Why don't I feel terrified?

                “Ah, that’s it then. You’re only scared when the water looks nice.” Drindle drawls, seeming very pleased.

               “Okay, can we leave now?” I ask impatiently. The water is starting to smell.

               “After you.”

               We walk to his little Toyota, and drive back to my house. I fall asleep along the way. Blue, my favorite shade of blue. Small bubbles each one like a translucent parachutes, float around me. Hands, distorted and blurry reach for me, but they can’t touch me. I don't want to be touched.  He doesn't deserve it. The light plays with the dark on the surface of the water, his hands thrashing the still water. Sighing, I slide or maybe I float deeper into my favorite blue.  Then it’s not my favorite blue anymore, it’s too dark and I can’t breathe. I can't breathe. Steel vices seem to close over my lungs and small fires creep into my chest ,suffocating me. My head begins to pound and the edges of my vision grow dark.

               I jolt awake, tired of the same dream. It started about 4 years ago, when I left school. I’m sixteen now and it’s embarrassing. I told my parents about it at first, but they sent me to psychiatrists, the kind that judge without saying anything and talk with cold eyes. I only go because I can’t remember and that drives me crazy. It's like there's a big, hazy hole in the middle of my brain.  I remember our vacation to Jamaica,  and learning how  to swim.I don’t think I’m even supposed to kn have those memories at all. I saw the plane tickets in the trash, and the beginners swimming medal behind the sofa. Worst of all, I don’t remember the "sheer joy of being underwater", my own words from my essay on What I Love Most, which I found tear stained and creased in my father’s desk.

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sorry all the chapters are really short, but it's a short story and i broke it up in chapters based on the action and setting !