Way Down There

He was a god. A disdainful, disappointed, impatient god. With his head and shoulders massive and black against the weak autumn sun.

And me, way down. Down in the dark cold of the oily water that made me retch and clung to my face. My lovely new red coat soaking it up, dragging me down like punishment for my vanity, my fingers clinging to the slimy, nameless living things that grew into the concrete side of the dock. Down where the big things live, and swim blind and eat. Down where dreadful machines tear you up without noticing, without hitching in their rotation. Where the very bad things slumber without breathing.

I could hear  the snap and lick of the water, and the scream – the high, frantic scream I launched. As if I’d opened my mouth and brought my own hell into being. It echoed up the gap between the gigantic rusty hull of the ship and the pier. A metal-piercing whistle of a cry, converging back onto me from everywhere, until my ears were ringing, until it was pressing back up my nose, and down my throat like the icy water only sharper.

“Daddy,” I screamed.  “Daddy, it’s cold.”

“Oh, you stupid little bitch.” Low and angry and so, so disappointed. “I told you not to…”

The cold was a giant snake, squeezing me smaller, and empty of air. My fingers numb, dead as jelly babies. My feet, scraping against the rock. I was trying not to ruin my beautiful, shiny black patent-leather shoes.

“Daddy, please.”

But I could tell by the way he held his arms that his hands were still in his pockets. He’d never taken them out.

I don’t remember how I got out, or who pulled me out. I don’t remember getting dry. And because I don’t remember, sometimes I think I died down there.