The net is filled with fish on this hot and unforgiving morning. Thrashing about, they are full of life and vigor—and soon, will be in me and my family’s stomachs.

If I can pull them up.

Normally, this would not be an issue; because as a girl of seventeen, I should be strong and full of resolve. Unfortunately for me, fate has dealt me a heavy hand, and left my body with terrible suffering.

You have to do it is the thought that keeps repeating itself in my head. You have to.

I am not the only mouth I have to feed on this hot and unforgiving day. My sister, Dahlia, has been asking for food since last night, and my father—

I sigh.

My father’s condition has worsened. No longer can he bear heavy burdens upon his back or shoulders, whether real or imagined. For that reason, the task of fishing has fallen to me.

And I cannot dawdle.

I can already see them moving in the distance, circling the boat they know will eventually provide them food. Their wicked fins are traitorous to my conscience, and even more threatening to my body.

It will not be long before the sharks are drawn.

For that reason, I must hurry.

I brace myself for the pain that is likely to shoot through my body—for the agony that will tear through my arms—and take hold of the rope that holds the net together.

I bite down. Grit my teeth. Pull.

The pain is excruciating—sending stabbing needles throughout the joints in my fingers and hands—and causes me to sway as I use my body’s weight to pull the net from the waters. It is not the rope that is heavy, all things considering. It is the fish, plump and fat from years of freedom, that weigh me down.

I lift my eyes from where they are trained on the net to look at the horizon beyond—

Only to find that the sharks are gone.

A flicker of panic surges through me.

Then, I see it—the dark shape, wicked and striped, making its way toward me.

I have less than ten seconds before it reaches the net.

So, I do what I feel is best, considering the circumstance—throw myself backward.

The net, and the fish in it, are ejected from the water…

Just in time for the monster to jump from the ocean’s depths.

I see, for one brief moment, a razor-sharp maw with multiple rows of serrated teeth. Then it crashes against the boat and sends the vessel rocking.

I don’t know how heavy the beast is. I can only surmise that it weighs several hundred, if not a thousand pounds. Regardless, it doesn’t matter; because as the boat careens one way, I am thrown to the floor, then am dragged down by gravity and the weight of the fish.

I scream, “Dahlia!”

And my sister—who is awaiting the day’s catch from below deck—comes barreling up, her red braids flashing in the wind.

She takes hold of my hand.

I take hold of hers.

She pulls back.

I cry out.

I almost lose the catch, but am able to maintain my grip on it as my seven-year-old sister drags me backward.

It is over just as quickly as it began.

In but a moment, the boat is righting itself, the fish are flailing out of water, and I am reeling, breathless and panicked over the experience.

My sister asks, “Are you okay?”

And I, with little thought to my wellbeing, say, “Yeah. I am.”

She lifts her eyes to the waters beyond the boat. “It’s the same one,” she says, “isn’t it?”

I turn my head to look past the railing only to find that the monster is submerging itself into the depths of the ocean.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s the same one.”

My sister sighs, but considers the fish at my feet and says, “At least you caught supper.”

I can only nod.

In the end, that’s the only thing that matters.

We won’t go hungry tonight.

 * * *

My father goes to work gutting and preparing the fish for the evening’s meal. I, meanwhile, lie in pain on my simple bed below deck, regretting every moment I exist.

The pain’ll dissipate, I think, forcing myself to count backward while breathing in through my nose and out of my mouth. It always does.

That isn’t exactly true, though. In reality, the pain could last for hours, and sometimes even wake me up after a long and restless sleep. Still, I have to have hope—and for that reason, I lie prone and still, and pray that someone, anyone, will take my pain away.

From above, I hear my father swear. Dahlia admonishes him for his curse, then laughs as my father says something in response.

It’s a life I should have learned to love, considering I survived the Flood.

Some weren’t so lucky.

As I close my eyes, and as I begin to drift into dream, I faintly remember the rain as it begun one Friday afternoon—and how I, as little more than a girl of ten, looked out at it.

“Will it ever stop?” I remember asking at one point, after it had rained non-stop for three days straight.

“It will,” my mother had said. “It always does.”

Except it didn’t. Wouldn’t. Would never.

Not for years.

We’d been lucky, I suppose. We’d had a boat then, and lived by the coast, so we’d been able to beat the rising tides as water from both the sky above and the crack they’d found in the sea below raised the sea levels to astronomical heights.

We’ve been sailing for nearly six years, and we still haven’t seen land.

Not since everything else was swallowed up.

I sigh as I try to recall what it felt like to live a life on solid ground—a life where I’d go to school, play with friends, live life normally as the world and my circumstance saw fit.

It hurts to not remember.

But nothing hurts as much as this.

I flex my fingers in an effort to draw the pain into my arms, but find that it does little but cause my joints to flare in response. They are like daggers, my bones, and they struggle with all their might to pierce flesh that seems to be made of stone.

It’s all I can do to keep from crying.

Yet, somehow, I don’t. Instead, I inhale, exhale, breathe sweetly the fresh air that filters down from the deck above. I hear Dahlia’s laughter, my father’s careful words, the ebb of the ocean as waves brush against the sides of our vessel.

Then, slowly, I drift off to sleep.

 * * *

It is not dreams that meet me. Instead, they are nightmares—cruel, harmful, and barbed. They instantly take root in my conscience and trap me in a land that is not my own, in a time that once existed.

In a time during the Flood.

The sea had been twisted then—violent in its intent to destroy everything that we saw fit—and though try as I did to not be afraid, I could not help but huddle below deck with my sister, who at the time had barely been little more than four.

Stay back! my mother had said. Let your father and I handle this!

They’d been trying to keep the sails from thrashing about, the fabric from being ripped free from the mast. Just hours before they’d been mending a tear within its length, and though they’d sworn they’d secured everything in anticipation for the coming storm, something had happened.

Something that had caused the sail to flap loose.

There was no way to tell what was going on at that point. Huddled beside my younger sister, I’d held her tight as above our parents called to and yelled at each other to do this or do that. Dahlia had just been a baby, and though she’d always tried her best to hold it together, she was crying, piteously, against my shoulder.

It’ll be okay, I remembered saying. They’ll be back in a little bit.

But of course, that we not meant to be.

One moment, everything was fine.

The next, the boat swelled.

The boom holding the sail in place snapped around.

My mother cried out.

Then, my father screamed.

There was no way, at that point, for me to know what was happening. But based off his cries of agony, his screams of frustration, I knew that something horrible had happened.

By the time he’d returned, he was drenched to the core—and, worst of all: alone.

Where’s Mommy? Dahlia had asked.

She’s gone, my father had replied. I’m sorry. She’s gone.

 * * *

Those two words are enough to stir me from sleep.

I awaken slowly, cautiously, with hesitation I know is born from the dread of the past rather than the facts of the present. Pulled effortlessly from the realm of sleep, I open my eyes to find that pale light is filtering down the passage, and my father and sister’s voices along with it.

“Daddy,” Dahlia says.

“Yes?” my father replies.

“Is Nicky ever going to get better?”

I inhale a breath.

My father doesn’t respond.

“Daddy?” Dahlia asks again.

“We shouldn’t talk about your sister when she could be listening.”

“But is she—”

The sound of the wood creaking beneath my feet causes both of them to fall silent.

In but a moment, I am rising, stretching, grimacing as old pains flare to life. Then I am climbing the stairwell, and making my way into the light of day.

My father’s tired hands are tending to the fish above the seaweed-stoked fire. Dahlia, however, looks on at me cautiously, her bright green eyes blazing despite the fact that a certain guilt curls her lips.

I say, “Hey.”

She says, “Hi.”

My father adds, “How are you feeling?”

And I reply, “A little better.”

“You pulled in a big catch,” he says. “We’ll eat well tonight.”

I nod, and step past him to look at the ocean beyond. “Is he gone?” I ask.

“Who?” my father questions.

“Tiger?” my sister offers.

“Yeah. Tiger,” I say, more than a bit unnerved that we’ve come to call the shark that continues to follow our boat by name.

“I haven’t seen it since I’ve come up here,” my father says. “I’m making sure to keep everything in the bucket.”

“A bucket of blood isn’t what’s luring it, Dad. It’s the fact that I put the net down.”

“Surely it isn’t smart enough to know?” he offers.

I turn my head and narrow my eyes.

My father averts his gaze, obviously troubled. “They look done,” he says, looking down at my catch.

And so we eat.

While I sample my fish, and sip the water that’s been filtered from the sea via distillation, my eyes trail along the horizon, purposely seeking land that I know we will never find.

You gotta stop hoping, a part of me says. It’s been years since you’ve seen anything.

Is it so wrong, though, to hope that we will one day find land? Surely the whole world could not have been covered by water. Right?

It sure feels like it, I then think, and sigh.

My father lifts his eyes to look at me, that silent, ever-lingering question on his face.

Dahlia turns her head in the direction I’m facing and says, “Looking for land?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not.”

“Liar,” my sister says.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from responding. I know Dahlia’s simply concerned. I mean, who wouldn’t be, especially when it’s a teenage girl longing for something that she can never have? Those are fantasies my sister should be having, not me.

A frown crosses my lips, but quickly fades when my sister begins to hum under her breath.

“Stop that,” I say.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“No!” Dahlia says.

“Why are you humming anyway?”

“Because I heard it in the ocean,” my sister replies.

“We haven’t seen any whales for ages,” I say.

“They’re not whales, Nicky. They’re mermaids.”

“You know there’s no such thing as mermaids.”

“Yes there is!”

“No there—”

“Girls,” my father says, and sighs.

We both stop arguing. There’s something in the way he speaks that sets me on edge, and causes Dahlia’s upper lip to stiffen.

“What is it, Dad?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I wanted to discuss what might happen in the future with you,” he says.

“Daddy?” Dahlia asks. “What’s wrong? Why are you acting that way?”

“Because I’m sick, baby girl. And… because I don’t think I’m going to make it much longer.”

There are no words to describe what goes through your mind after hearing such a thing. The rumble of chaos, the hopelessness of the future, the utter shock of the present—memories of the past come flooding back at this moment, like a wave surging from somewhere far away on the ocean, and crash into me with the full malevolence of life.

My father, standing at the rails—

Him, coughing—

Him, vomiting—

Blood, spilling—

I’ve known he was sick for some time, and have been trying to keep it from Dahlia since. The shock is not as great to me as it is to my sister, who instantly starts crying.

“Die?” she wails. “Die?”

“Yes, baby girl. I… I think I might be dying.”

“No!” my sister cries, standing. “You can’t! Won’t!”

“I can’t help what nature has in store for me,” my father sighs, lowering his eyes to hide what are undoubtedly tears. “I just… I wanted to warn you. Both of you. So… it wouldn’t come as a shock.”

A shock, I think, would not describe what he is saying. Instead, he should have said a blow—which, with its barbed countenance, would leave first its damage, then the impressions that would last forever.

As I sit here, staring in horror at my father, I try my hardest to allow my emotions to sink in, but find my survival instincts kicking in.

What do I do? I think.

How will we survive? I wonder.

How will I take care of Dahlia?

The last thought is the most haunting—because I know, deep down, that I am merely a sister, not a mother, or a father. To think that I could control a wild spirit such as hers is comparable to capturing the sun and the moon—an impossible fantasy that could not be made real.

Dahlia sobs.

My father moves to rise.

He stops, then, and turns his head as he reaches up to cover his mouth.

“Dad?” I ask. “What’re you—”

He vomits, then—

But it is not bile.

No.

It is blood.

As he retches—and as Dahlia screams for help that I cannot offer—I can only watch as the blood goes trailing across the deck, over the edge of the boat…

And into the water below.

Though my father’s episode lasts only for a moment, its impression in my life is enough to make me realize that the end is fast approaching.

I can only watch as, in the distance, our angel of death appears.

 * * *

My father requests to sleep on the upper deck not long after Dahlia has abandoned her dinner to cry in her bed on the lower deck.

You’re sure? I asked.

I’m sure, he’d replied.

I watch him from the far side of the upper deck and wait for something—anything—to happen. Whether or not his death will occur now or in hours I do not know, but as he lies there, wrapped in his many blankets, I wonder:

Can I handle what comes next?

He has taught me well. This, I know. And yet, I can’t help but feel as though I am so horribly unprepared—to take care of not only myself, but Dahlia.

Dahlia, I think.

I should go to her. I know I should. But, I also know that she will not accept me openly. She will ask why I did not tell, why I did not speak. And I—I will only be able to tell her the horrible truth: that I, too, was afraid of what would come, and did not want her to face it until she was ready.

But are you?

The thought occurs to me effortlessly, but haunts me ever more.

No, I think. I am not ready. I will not be ready. Nor will I ever be ready.

My father—he has been our rock, our anchor, our captain through this life at sea. To know that he will soon be gone is unlike anything I could ever imagine.

It is suffering incarnate.

As I stand here, looking on at the one man I have known and loved throughout my entire life, I find myself wondering if I will ever see another person like him again. Then I realize it is not likely, and find myself more sullen than I had been before.

After giving him one last look, I turn and, with careful precision, make my way into the sleeping quarters.

Dahlia has fallen still, and though the silence is punctuated by her heavy breathing, it causes me to pause as I remove my foot off the final step.

“Dahlia?” I ask. “Are you awake?”

She doesn’t respond—at least, not at first. She shifts, though, indicating that she is awake. Then she inhales a long, hard breath, then exhales it accordingly.

The only words she can ask are: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” I reply.

“Did he know?” she asks. “That you knew?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Wise beyond her years, the little girl lifts her head to face me, and offers me a sad look that is stained with tears. Her eyes instantly fall on the threshold above, and when she asks, “Is he staying up there?”

I can only reply with, “Yes. I… I think he is.”

“Why?”

I don’t want to tell her the reason I think he is up there. But I know that, if I don’t, she will never trust me again. For that reason, I clear my throat and say, “I… I think he’s up there because he knows I couldn’t lift him.”

“Lift him?” she asks. “What are you—”

I turn my head to face her.

Tears run down her face anew.

“Nicky?” my sister asks.

“Yeah?” I reply.

“Promise me?”

“Promise you what, Dahlia?”

“That you won’t die.”

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and expel it accordingly.

I want to promise her. I really do. But in this moment, I know I can’t do it without lying.

However—I know my sister deserves that lie.

For that reason, I simply say, “I promise” and close my eyes once more.

As the sound of the ship rocking enters, then exits my ears, I wonder, for one brief moment, just how we’ll survive.

Then I realize that, without him, we might not.

 * * *

Our father dies sometime during the night.

I discover this truth when I rise to the upper deck the following morning—and see, in his blank gaze, a desolation that I know can only come from death.

“Oh, Daddy,” I whisper.

I crouch down beside him, even though my joints protest the action, and then move forward to press a hand to his face.

It is only when I hear the stairs creaking that I close his eyes for him.

Dahlia freezes at the threshold. “He’s—” she starts.

“Gone,” I say.

And she wails.

 * * *

We stand there for quite some time—crying, sighing, holding one another through the test of time. The sea is calm on this unnatural day, and though I want so badly to do something to ease my little sister’s suffering, I know that, as of now, there is nothing I can do.

There is, however, the matter of our father.

“We have to let him go,” I whisper as I crouch down to look my sister in the eyes.

Her remote gaze centers on me. “Go?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Go.”

“Where?”

I turn my head toward the sea and frown.

Dahlia trembles. “The ocean?” she asks.

“Yes. The ocean.”

“But… won’t he…”

“I don’t know,” I reply. “All I know is that he wouldn’t want us to leave him here. He’d want us to send him off.”

The little girl nods, but relinquishes her hold on my hand. She then turns to our father’s body and says, “Do we say something?”

“Just that we love him,” I whisper.

Dahlia steps forward. Crouches down. Takes hold of our father’s hand. Though her well of tears has run out, she closes her eyes and says, “I love you, Daddy” before leaning down and kissing his cheek.

“I love you, too,” I say.

He had positioned himself to where we could simply push him into the water.

How sad, I think, to know the end was coming. To know that you’d leave two children behind.

But he knew I would take care of us. I know he did. Because why else would he have taught me all the things he had?

With a sad sigh, I reach down, then tighten my hold around his shirt. Then I turn to Dahlia and ask, “Are you ready?”

She can only nod.

Together, we push—

Push again—

Push some more—

And watch our father’s body slip into the ocean.

He doesn’t sink, like I anticipated he would. Rather, he floats—which, though morbid in its own right, is absolutely beautiful in another.

“Thank you,” I whisper, “for taking care of us. For teaching us what we needed to know. For—”

“Nicky!” Dahlia screams. “LOOK OUT!”

I see a flash of movement.

Grab my sister’s hand.

Pull her back.

Then watch, in horror, as the monster who has been following us for days emerges from the depths and takes hold of our father’s body.

Dahlia screams.

I can only stare in horror.

Blood stains the water as the two of them disappear into the depths.

As my little sister wails, I can only tremble.

I should’ve known it would stick around.

What my father thought was wrong.

 * * *

I am starting to believe that the shark is a cruel and otherworldly force of nature—to the point where, when watching it, I feel as though it knows we are here. Watching and waiting, circling and baiting, it waits for something that knows is here, but understands it cannot have.

For now, I think.

Lying here, on my cot, listening to the sound of the waves and the thunder as it begins to roll in, I wonder if we will ever find land—or, more aptly, peace.

Grief takes its toll, my father had once said, on the body, mind and soul.

Because of that, I know that I cannot expect my wounds to heal instantly. All I can do is wait.

Wait.

For the waves to roll in, for the waves to roll out, for the humming to stop—

The humming? I think. What am I—

Then I hear it: soft, a low lull somewhere nearby.

“Dahlia,” I say. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” she asks, and groggily at that.

“Humming.”

“I’m not,” she replies. “I told you. It was the mermaids.”

“There’s no such things as mermaids, Dahlia. Stop that.”

“I—”

I snap upright and twist my head to face her. “I said—”

She stares right at me—eyes wide, mouth unmoving.

Worst of all: the noise isn’t coming from her.

No.

It’s coming from somewhere below.

I frown as I consider this, tremble as I anticipate it, and wonder where, of all places, the whales could have come from.

We haven’t seen any in months, I think.

But just because we hadn’t seen them doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Right?

Right, I think, and throw my legs over the side of the bed. I grimace as I apply pressure to my joints, but find myself able to stand regardless.

“Where are you going?” Dahlia asks.

“To show you that the mermaids aren’t real,” I reply.

I take her hand—perhaps a bit too roughly, given my state—and ignore her as she cries out.

“Stop it!” she cries. “Nicky! Stop!”

“I’m gonna show you that they’re just whales,” I say as I pull her up the stairs. “I’m going to show you—”

I open the trapdoor.

Pass through the threshold.

Stand atop the deck.

I spin about, expecting to see them: the humpbacks, or the sperm whales, or even the black-and-white Orca that I find so pretty.

But I see nothing.

Nothing.

Yet, I still hear it—sweeter this time, and more melodic.

“It’s so pretty,” Dahlia says.

“Stay here,” I say, tightening my hold on her wrist.

“But, Nicky—”

“What?”

“There’s something underwater.”

“What’re you—”

I see them, then—the fleeting tails: ranging in hue from light purple to deep green, disappearing beneath the boat.

“What in the world…” I start to mumble.

“They’re mermaids!” Dahlia says. “I told you! I told you!”

“Go below,” I say.

“But Nicky—” Dahlia says.

“I said go.”

Their pitch is rising, their voices disorienting me. I feel my head spin as their melody continues to rise and fall, sharpen and stab.

I grab my ears.

Whisper, “Stop.”

Hear it continue. Hear my head vibrate with pain.

“I said STOP!” I cry. “Stop it! STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!”

“Nicky!” Dahlia cries. “Look!”

I spin.

Just in time to see the countenance of a long-haired woman free herself from the water.

Her alabaster skin, her jet-black hair, her cruel eyes, her vicious lips—she smiles as she waves a webbed hand, then presses it to her lips to blow me a kiss.

Then, she screams.

The sound—so high-pitched that it immediately drills into my head—causes me to lose my balance.

I stumble. Fall. Hit my head on the deck.

Then, I black out.

 * * *

I awaken what feels like hours later to a throbbing head.

“Dahlia?” I manage, blinking, then grimacing as I open and close my eyes. “Where are you?”

My little sister doesn’t respond.

I lift my head slowly, hesitantly, bearing the burden of physical pains within both my skull and spine. My joints throb, and my spinal column feels like it’s been disconnected at my hips, but surges with pain as I seat myself upright.

I gasp, then cry out.

Then I hear a splash, and someone laughing.

“Dahlia?” I ask, turning my head, only to find my sister crouched down at the edge of the railing. “Get away from there.”

“They said they’d bring Daddy back,” the little girl says.

“Get away from there,” I warn, watching as several dark shapes circle the boat. “Dahlia—listen to me: they can’t bring Daddy back.”

“They said they could,” she replies.

“They’re lying. Whatever they are—they’re lying, Dahlia.”

My little sister tilts her head down to look into the water.

I watch, in horror, as the black-haired beauty emerges from the ocean, and reaches up to touch my sister’s face.

“Get away from her!” I cry. “Get away from—”

She tilts her head to the side, opens her mouth, and undulates—a series of rolling sounds and clicking noises that rise from the back of and then are projected out her throat.

A second mermaid rises. Then a third.

One reaches up toward Dahlia—

I lash out. Grab onto my sister’s hand. Pull her back.

Dahlia screams.

The merpeople disappear into the water.

I grapple with my little sister and pull her back toward the trapdoor leading into the boat.

“You can’t listen to them,” I reply. “You can’t, Dahlia. Please. Listen to me.”

“I want Daddy!” the little girl cries.

“Daddy’s dead!” I scream.

My sister’s eyes lose focus. Then, in a small voice, she says, “No.”

“No?”

“No. He’s not dead. They showed me.”

“Showed you how?” I ask.

“When you were asleep… they… they showed me.”

“How, Dahlia? How did they show you?”

“She sang,” the little girl says, “and he… he came back up.”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “That’s a lie. Whatever you saw wasn’t our father.”

“Yes it was!”

“No it—”

A high-pitched giggle sounds from somewhere nearby.

I lift my eyes to find that the same mermaid is still watching us, and waving her hand in greeting.

“Go away,” I say, and grab the bucket before hurling it at her.

She disappears before the bucket can strike the water.

“Dahlia,” I say, taking hold of her hands. “You can’t leave me. You can’t. Okay? Do you understand? Whatever they say—whatever they tell you—you cannot leave me. They’re lying.”

“They’re not lying,” Dahlia says.

“Promise me you’ll leave them alone,” I say. “Okay?”

She blinks. Then she says, “Okay” and turns to make her way down below deck.

I can’t help but tremble.

If they told her something—if they really, truly showed her what she wanted to believe—then how am I going to stop her from diving in after them?

I cannot know.

All I know is that I have to do what’s right.

 * * *

Though I know it would be impossible to stop a truly-determined person from leaving, I slip a lock around the trapdoor’s latch while Dahlia is asleep. This, I know, will at least give me adequate time to stop her should she try and escape the living quarters.

As I settle down on my own bed—the key in my pocket, my heart beating ever faster—I beg to question what exactly has happened.

Did they, I wonder, come from the split in the sea?

There had been reports of several of the oceanic trenches opening during the Great Flood. I’d been too young to fully grasp the magnitude of the event, but now…

Now…

I wonder if they released these… mermaids… from their depths.

You don’t know what they are, a part of me says. What they’re capable of.

They’d knocked me out with but one song. And Dahlia… they’d almost lured her into the ocean.

I shiver as I think about it—grimace as pain assaults my body—and find myself curling onto my side.

I know part of my shock is grief, another the anger over almost having my sister taken away from me. But the third part, though… it’s of the fantasy that they’d presented.

One jump, my conscience says, and you could end this whole adventure.

No.

I shake my head.

I can’t do that. Won’t do that. Refuse to do that.

As I drift to sleep, I find myself thinking of just one person:

Dahlia.

 * * *

I am awakened by cold air.

At first, I’m not sure where it’s coming from.

Then I realize that it’s coming from the trapdoor.

“Dahlia?” I ask, jerking upright. “Dahlia? Dahlia!”

My sister is nowhere to be seen.

I reach for the pocket of my shorts. Find that the key is gone. Panic.

I’m up the stairs in less than thirty seconds.

As I come to stand upon the deck, I can see nothing but ocean.

Nothing.

This time, I scream.

But no one, and no thing, can hear me.

As I let loose my pain, my suffering, and everything in between, I hear, from somewhere nearby, the very song that compelled Dahlia to leave this world behind.

I turn my head. See the black-haired mermaid emerge from the water. Watch her smile. Watch her wave.

When I come to stand fully—and when, after a moment’s hesitation, I think of everything I lost—I see in her eyes a silver light that makes me wonder if there really is a better place on this godforsaken earth.

Maybe, I think. Maybe it’s time.

Time to wander. Time to leave. Time to flee from this place called life.

In stepping toward the railing, I realize that I am no longer suited for this world.

Because of that, I do what anyone who was faced with immeasurable loss, and a hopeless future, would do.

I jump.