1
Lavinia
The fall doesn’t even lastthe space between two heartbeats.
If I’d had any expectations about it, I think it would be slower, like moving through molasses, two bodies fluttering away from the edge of the universe like some birds shed feathers. My life should be flashing before my eyes, a slideshow of hurts and mends and bitter wishes for revenge. But that doesn’t happen. It’s just… so fast.So fucking fast.
Remy and I, we’re not feathers, and that’s the only profound thought I have time to acknowledge. That we’re solid and real and painfully heavy and the universe doesn’t care about us. Not as specks, nor air to be exhaled from its lungs. We’re two pieces of lead hurtling through a gravity that’s pushing us down.
I barely register the wind in my hair, the crushing pressure of Remy’s arms as he squeezes me close, the surface of the water rushing up to meet us. But it’s not the jump that scares me. The real fear is from the realization that the man holding me as we fall, the man with a fragile psyche, has a tighter grip on reality than the rest of us.
That’s what consumes me as we smash into the black, icy water. It’s only when we hit, sternums slamming against one another, that I realize Remy’s turned us during the fall so that his back hits first. I think I might hear the air punching from his lungs, but it’s instantly covered by the muted garble of the water swallowing us whole.
And then, it’s a lot like the fall.
One minute we’re conjoined, and the next, our bodies are cleaved apart by the rush of the water. Feeling the power of the surge, I understand with an aching clarity that this is how we’ll die. It’s not the fall. It’s not even the landing. It’s the blind fury of the water, tossing us about like grains of ineffectual sand.
Fifty-fifty shot—luck.
I’m instantly turned around, body thrashing against the current, the water dark and endless, and there’s no space for any other thought but this: survival. I can’t tell what’s up or down. I kick, but I don’t know if I’m rising or just burying myself deeper into a grave. My body feels pulled in five different directions, and I can hear it–the rush of water, the call of the void.
I rage against it, pushing and flailing, spreading my hands, seeking air, ground, rocks, anything. It’s not long before my lungs begin burning, muscles seizing against the cold and the power of my punches through the water. For a split second, I pause, and I realize my sister was here once. She was in this water. She felt this coldness. She knew the burn of two lungs, suffocating. She died here, just like this, determined but powerless.
It’s only then that I see it.
A faint glimmer of something in the distance, through the water. A gap in the emptiness. A pale light guiding me.
The moon.
My kicking leg slams against the craggy darkness, and I can finally orient myself. I’m deep in the water and being battered against a wall of rock.
I kick off of the stone, propelling myself frantically toward the light, arms extended, palms grasping, lungs aching like needle-fire. Where the fall toward the surface seemed to have lasted a mere blink, the ascent to it takes centuries, and with every sweep of my arm, every kick of my legs, I’m filled with more and more confidence that I won’t make it. That my lungs are going to win this battle to inhale, filling me with the ice I’m fighting against. That someone is going to find me later, bloated and still. That I wasn’t able to keep my promises. Not to Nick or Sy, or even Remy.
I’m almost not even expecting it when I finally arrive, breaking through the surface with a gasp so loud that it’s mingled with a cry. I go back down instantly, but try frantically to kick myself back to the surface.
And then someone grabs me.
Hands pull me toward the light, hauling me back to the surface. My lungs expand gratefully before expelling a series of wet, hacking coughs that seize my body, a phantom fist around my diaphragm. There’s no instinct to relax. The adrenaline—fight or flight—still courses through me.
“Get off of me!” I cry, but most of it is lost in a gulp of water. I’d fight harder, except my body doesn’t know who to fight against; the water or the hands.
“Come on,” I hear over the sloshing water in my ears. I kick out, using my foot to drive him away. “Fucking hell, Vinny!”
Vinny.
I heave, gagging, but manage to suck in air. “Remy? Remy is that you?” I spin, struggling against the darkness to make out a face.
“Jesus, you got me right in the balls,” he wheezes. Relief floods through me as he drags me along, his inked forearm wrapping around my body like an anchor. It’s solid but lacking strength. I kick my feet, helping propel us toward the rocky outcropping that I can hear the waves crashing against.
“Almost,” he grunts, “there.” His voice sounds as ragged as I feel, winded and wan, but there’s a power to it that drives me harder.
We made it.
We cheated death and its disciples.
Only a little further to go.
My knees graze the bottom suddenly–hard, sandy rock–and I feel the skin tearing absent of pain. I plant my feet just as Remy releases me, and I press my hands to the stone, so thankful for solid ground that I could kiss it. The cold air stings my skin, but I want to get out of the water—away from here.