Page 9 of Undertow

Living for those refreshing gasps of oxygen

in between my panic attacks.

-JD August 11

THEN: BREATHING UNDERWATER

(Two years, three months earlier)

They say you can’t breathe underwater. That’s not true. You can’t breathe andsurviveunderwater. But until the moment your brain screams for oxygen and your heart chokes out its last stale beats, you can suck in liquid and debris with abandon.

When you truly can’t breathe is the moment a foot crashes into your side and leaves you gasping on a cold concrete floor. And when that foot slams into you again and again and again, you know—like the rush of putrid water flooding your lungs—you are going to die. In fact, that truth is all that matters in that cosmic speck of time. You don’t even feel the sting of the zip tie cutting into your wrists or the throbbing burn scalding the left side of your face. Not until the death strokes stop and air finally wheezes back into your throat do you realize you’re going to suffer before you die.

Then you feel it all.

“Who sent you?!”

His fist balls to hit me again, but I can’t draw in enough air to give an answer.

When I don’t respond, he releases it to do more damage.

I don’t groan when I hit the floor. I don’t do anything except writhe in slow involuntary movements. He says something, but all I comprehend is the brassy taste of blood. Pain. Fear. Panic at my inability to organize my thoughts enough to fight for survival. I’m going to let this happen. Just like everything else.

It’s a fitting death for a man who’s never been brave enough to live.

A door opens behind me. Footsteps. Rustling.

“He won’t talk,” my assailant grunts, confirming the presence of a new monster.

“Get him up,” the intruder says, not unkindly. Gentle, like a true angel of death.

Hands clasp my arms and drag me to my knees.

“Look at me, son,” the man says.

I try. I want to. My brain issues commands but my broken body rebels.

“Look at him!” the violent one growls.

When his fingers dig into my hair and wrench my head up, I do.

My scalp burns from his grip, but I barely feel it as I squint at the new man through swollen eyes.Short, dark hair littered with silver. Thick brows suspended over piercing green eyes. Piercing, but not vibrant. No, there’s a dull pallor to his irises that chills the recesses of your awareness more than cold lake water on a sticky June night.

His eyes hold the opaque sheen of a soul already dead.

“They tell me your name is Roman Shaw and you’ve worked at my Liberty Palace Resort as a bartender for just over a month.”

I nod, and the man behind me jerks my head. “Say it,” he snaps.

“Yes, sir,” I stutter from lungs still weak with trauma.

His eyes narrow on mine, then track my body in a slow perusal. When his gaze rests back on my face, I shiver at the change in his expression. “Pleased” isn’t the right word for the glint in his eyes. Opportunistic. Sadistic.

Machiavellian.

“But your name isn’t Roman Shaw, is it.”

It’s not a question.

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