The Weight on My Ankles
The bottom is more than ten meters deep. I kicked hard to get back to the dock, but the sensation of density in the water changed. I’m no longer moving through liquid; the water around my waist feels dense, heavy, as if I were swimming in cold oil. Suddenly, a sharp tug pulled both my legs under up to my knees.
I screamed, but the air came out in bubbles as my head went under for a second. I broke the surface, thrashing with the desperation of a trapped animal. As I looked down over my shoulder, the clarity of the water revealed a terrifying sight: there’s nothing holding my legs down. There are dozens of elongated shadows emanating from my own feet—dark threads sinking into the abyss and pulling me toward the bottom with a rhythmic, patient force, as if my own limbs had taken root in the darkness.
