Night Swim

11:57am Wednesday 16th April 2008

The boy tore out of the house as fast as he could, unable to endure any more patriarchal abuse. He did not know what he was going to do; he just knew he had to get as far away from his stepfather as possible, and he knew where he wanted to go. He ran inexorably on, oblivious to the grinding, gnawing, screaming pain in his side from the knife-cut. The blood seeped through his white t-shirt, and his tears scalded his thin, hollow cheeks. He tasted the salty water as it trickled into his mouth.

The boy, although exhausted, did not rest until he reached the sea; he had a deep gash in his right-side, and an aching stitch in his left.

The sea: Calm... Blue... Tranquil.

He thought of the sea as his real home, thriving with every kind of life which proliferated every second. It was late evening; the moon held sway over the night sky. The boy ran to the end of the pier and kicked off his sandals, stripping completely. A skeleton stood there, white, scared, bruised, battered, naked. It dived in without a second thought.

The sea hit the boy like a solid wall and enveloped him in dark shimmering beauty. Instantly, the saltwater entered the gash in his side, like ten - twenty - a thousand different knives penetrating the same wound, tearing at his skin, pulling at his heart. The water was freezing, and he resurfaced almost immediately.

The boy turned in the water. His clothes lay untouched on the berth. The pier had been extensive; he had come a long way.

The further the better, he thought.

The boy looked down at his body, frail and shivering in the white moonlight. Blood blossomed from the deep laceration in his side, and the water surrounding him was especially black. He took a breath, and was submerged.

The boy hadn't yet fully realised how far he'd come, how deep the water was, or even how serious his gash was; but he could hold his breath underwater with ease. He'd had practice. Plenty of practice. The Atlantic Ocean was more like home than home itself. There were no drunken stepfathers wielding heavy knives. There was only the water. The water.

The boy swam far, far out using a slow breaststroke, which hurt with every movement as more saltwater entered his abrasion. He endeavoured to go under again, but the sea spat him out. His strokes became increasingly impetuous and irrational. He was having trouble breathing. The cold was getting to him. He turned back, and sensed that it was too far to swim.

The boy began the torturous journey back to the mainland. The city lights twinkled like suburban stars, far off in the distance. Every movement was a crushing crusade towards an unreachable destination; every sporadic jerk apparently inconsequential. After the uncaring moon shifted uncomfortably towards the west, the boy reached the jetty, and commenced the interminable ascent up the cold steel ladder. He knew he would not make it.

***

The boy's white cadaver was found the next day, floating on the water, while the callous cold-blooded cameras of the uncaring crowd clicked furiously, exposing his body to the world. The purple water around him grudgingly bore his weight; a man looked at the body with ersatz sorrow etched on his face. He was silently ruminating, fingering a knife stained dry with innocent blood.

Arjun
age 14

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