Under the Surface
“Niksi, come to me.”
My movements hasten, feet gliding down the steps. Hands sliding down the railing, the railing that’s so surprisingly warm. I don’t know who he is—the handsome voice screaming my name like I’m the devil or an angel, a curse or hope, transparent or existence. It sounds like I drink the souls of humans.
The staircase cascades in spirals downwards to pure blackness—a void, I assume, in response to the black air. But I don’t know why I’m running down instead of up. My body isn’t mine to control; it's an animal on its own. And what I think? No, angels do give mercy; I can’t control the thread of nerves my skull encompasses. It’s like my brain’s been put in a mist—anesthesia, perhaps?—and that I’m an echo entrapped in this cylinder tower.
Of all the countless theories, my presence in the cylinder tower is the only one I grasp to be tangible. The others cannot be more pooled in conjecture sauce. I’m stuck here, and I think I know why. There’s this faint blurred song blowing in my head, sort of serene but mostly dipped in sorrow I cannot bolster. He and me… He and I. That’s the correct grammar, I think, because as soft as the words are, my mouth cannot swallow grammatical rules.
Words seem like bubbles, unable to be pieced together. I don’t even think my respiration system is correct. My breathing’s off. So off, like I’m inhaling nitrogen. And that kills, doesn't it? So I must be dead, eh?
…And I thought I was American… was that not just British dialect?
My footsteps continue gliding down the staircase, and each step is more ginger than the next. Like I’m dancing the waltz on a lipstick-pink tulip leaf. The waltz… He and I danced to the violin that night. I think… My sister played it in rejoice, singing like her life was complete. The tide was painted in beauty, lovely like sirens, with the sand feeling like brown-colored ash. A giggle climbs out my throat, turning to air at my tongue. Oh, how beautiful was the song that spoke—almost more beautiful than the will my fingers held.
“Heeeyyyy, Niksi.” My footsteps begin racing like the wind once more. They fasten and fasten, flying like still air. I don’t think I like it here. My legs float down the staircase, but I still see him.
Him. Oh, I remember now—my first lover. My darling friend had donned a golden suit, hand extended, that night. Under the golden moon, we danced to the violin, and darling had appraised the cost of my silver dress. He loved knowing how much I spent. I told him, of course, willing to sacrifice my freedom for love—there’s this screeching music in the background; this place, I know it’s encroaching on my sanity. But I think I know where we are, in the sunken engine of a drowned ship.
My exhale comes out as dribbles of liquid. And then I think I remember. We were never in love. Our relationship was poured over a platonic potion. Our feet had merely danced onto the picnic blanket, with Yora playing the violin, screeching like a ghost. Why did I think the night was so romantic previously? Why? Then we were sent under. Hands of the sea, besieging— no, wait, that word is wrong; it was the hands of the sea carrying us into its thumping heart. His freshly shaven beard gathered all the salt of the sea, and I— No, only I was sent under. Just me. He’d smiled, then. When he had pushed me in. And Yora… she had tried helping me, I think, piercing her violin bow into his face. Screaming for him to save me. But she swam like a shark; I wonder why she didn’t try and get me herself. There was a wrestling match while I drifted into the sea. And the last blink showed him drifting down into the darkness with me. I wonder why. My fingers graze upon the gentle warmness of the staircase railing, still gliding down the staircase without the wish to stop. His hands were warm when he had cupped mine—both of us when we were falling down the sea. I’m sorry, Niksi. I’m so sorry. Yora forced me—he said. And I could hear Yora giggle. See her smile wider than the sea. And I did not believe either of them. I could taste the revolt on my tongue, and I— I swam up, screamed at her for wanting to take her own sibling’s life just for the inheritance, screamed at her for making my cousin push me down, and then… pulled her down.
My feet hover down the staircase, body carrying my soul from my damned friends. Fingers reach into my chest. Footsteps as silent as unheard screams. I touch around for an organ that would reverberate like the thumps of a drum. My hand comes out, not dipped in blood; my chest is empty. I guess I don't have a heart, then.
My throat begins to hum out a pleasant tone, in sync with my cousin’s drunken stagger and shouts. The song rises, then lowers, slithers, then slides. It’s like I’m melancholy herself. But this song, it’s not from my recollection. It’s an embedded code from my heart that I sliced, then fried in loyalty oil. And light flashes out. My face slides into the ground, foaming into a translucent mist. I know a sinister smile is planted on my face in front of my fellow water ghost; I just sang our species’ sacred song. I’m home.
My name isn’t Niksi—it’s Nixie. Water spirit. Better, water ghost.
“My darling, you experienced the side effects, didn’t you?” Nessa smirks, a glow radiating off her porcelain face. “Drank too many human souls?” I stand up, blowing a fake kiss.
“I thought I had a cousin and a sister.” Shaking my head, I add, “Just memories.” My smile grows bigger as my tongue rolls around the smoked taste of the people I killed.
