The Pool

By
The man feels the slimy rocks shifting beneath his bare feet- the cool, evening air against his body as the sound of rippling water rises up through the sweet- smelling air and almost literally pulls him down with the desire to be one with it. And so he follows the pull, and with a small breath he leaps, his feet departing swiftly from the cliff, suspending himself in free fall so many feet above the glittering pool below.

Now would be the time to arch the body- to prepare for impact and ensure correct posture, but the man remains straight with his arms pulled tight to his side, eyes firmly shut. With the sensation of the air rushing quickly through his ears, he feels as though time itself has ceased to exist and he is merely falling dreamily slow through the large amount of space between the jutting cliff and the lake, his cold, bare feet wiggling upon the nothing underneath him.

It’s now that the memories hit him: the pregnant woman with the swollen stomach and evil glare- the angry parents who wanted nothing more than to take his journals and burn them into ash, kindling among all those years of not being allowed to live life as himself- the thought of being bound to a child that he was tricked into making. Still in time, he sighs. He remembers the drunken blackout from the spiked drink she forced into his hands, the hazy, nightmarish vision of the act in which spawned the impish child that now rested unknowingly in her womb...he wanted none of it.

Time speeds up and he is finally falling again. The man opens his eyes and looks down upon his descending body- his pale and delicate writer’s hands that were never allowed to write...hands that were now calloused from years of hard labor he was made to do. He sees the small lake surrounded by rocks growing closer beneath him, and at this moment he realizes how very beautiful it was- the greenish water sparkling gem-like beneath the red sun- and he longs to be in it’s cool and wondrous embrace, for time to speed up and propel him into the water’s mystic arms. And as he feels the contact of his toes against the calm surface of the lake- the hard, slapping feeling of impact from such a high jump- he doubts they would ever be dry again. He doubted, were he even able, that he could bear to rip himself from the embrace.

Maybe it was better this way. It was his choice this time.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback