Young Writers Society

I’m watching you drown right now. Your petrified, round eyes stare out at me, glazing over. I tremble from the gruesome pleasure it gives me to see the bubbles slowly float from your mouth and rise to the surface. You bang on the glass with your fists as you kick and the frightened look on your face tells me that soon you will have to give in. Why does it disturb me that I delight in your futile agony, Étienne? Perhaps there remains a fragment of a moral compass within my soul? Or does the calm resentment of my own actions simply increase me twisted amusement?

Oh, how you writhe behind the crystal glass. For one final moment your fragile eyes find mine and then a small, precious bubble extinguishes the life within your lungs. Étienne, your hollow, white face shall haunt my dreams forever after.

I awake in a cold sweat, shivering underneath the saturated bed sheets. To my horror, I can still see your dead image superimposed over the darkness of my room. My friend, why is it that so often I dream that I killed you? I was a mere onlooker, yet the fact that I had a desire to rescue you and at the same time was fascinated by your anguish shall never leave me. This is not the first time this nightmare has crept so vividly into my sleep, nor shall it be the last.

Every morning I dread the night, knowing that the memory is intimate and near. You must know that I did not mean to cause you to fall into the glass tank? When the bolt closed, I panicked. The theatre was empty and a 13-year old boy does not have the height or strength to unclasp such a bolt. Étienne, I remember watching you die while tears streamed down my face. Still, although the sight struck terror within me, I continued to observe, utterly riveted.

We should not have snuck backstage. It is my deepest regret and it stains my heart with a black decay that eats it away day after day, night after night.

So, here I am, once again gazing at myself in the mirror. The light of the candle barely casts away the shadows that encroach my sleep. If you can see me now, eight year later, Étienne, you recognise that I have constantly paid for our childhood foolishness. And you paid with your life.

As I regard the reflection in the mirror, I notice the numerous folds underneath my dark eyes. The eyes themselves lack all signs of vitality and have turned from a cheerful brown to a troubled obsidian. I am a phantom, but I live. My visage is pale and appears eerie below my black hair. And yet, this ghastly apparition is not unattractive. He is just weighed down by the past.

You must recall that I used to be an aspiring marine biologist. My aunt used to take us to the seashore and for hours we would wonder over the alien creatures that know the secrets of the ocean. Following your drowning I could never look at the lapping waves and seek refuge, for they became threatening on even the sunniest days. Water is humanity’s weakness. So why is it, Étienne, that the water draws me to itself, calling my name…?

I return to bed and attempt to think of other things, but all I can think of is you. You shall forever be to me a dying 12-year old boy.

Morning dawns and as I have not been able to close my eyes, knowing what will occur, I eagerly accept the sun’s warm rays against my shivering flesh. Today, Étienne, you have driven me too far.

I get dressed. I wear a suit and tie, donning shiny black shoes the colour of my sick eyes. When I look in the mirror and see the mess of thick ebony hair, I want to straighten it out, but I decide against it.

Étienne, you know where we used to live? In the comfortable French village beside the ocean? Even after your death I remain there. I am rooted here. Visited by the banshee announcing your descent to the grave, day after day, night after night. Today I plod slowly toward the ocean. The ocean I have avoided for so long. As I walk, I see the grains of sand plunged beneath the strength of the sea, and then they show themselves again. At this time of day no one is here yet. Just a lone seagull preening its gray feathers. It tucks its beak inside its wings and watches me with its black eye.

Now I stop in sight of this beast they call the ocean, this beast I call my nightmare. In my dreams, it is encased in glass and there is a bolted lid.

I carefully remove my jacket and toss it to the side. The seagull flies away. Here I slide off my shoes.

Étienne. You must forgive me. I approach you as I approach the sea. My pants are soaked and the gentle waves push against me. I still fight them as they embrace me.

The salty tang of the sea obliterates me. As I join you, Étienne.