She is alone, knees tucked up underneath her, hips swaying lightly to keep her upright on the gentle surface of an ocean that was, for once, not her own. Driftwood and seaweed a makeshift raft – hardly a place to call home, hardly a way to survive forever. There is nothing for miles. To her left, to her right, in front of and behind her, is nothing but flat gray skies stretching to meet the edge of the ocean’s horizon. She could swim for weeks and never reach land, and she gets the feeling that she is out there alone, that no ship would cross her path no matter how long she dwelled. The sun hid behind the flat slate of clouds. No birds rode the air. There were no waves. There was no breeze. It was just that quiet lapping against the loosely-bound refuse slowly but surely collapsing under her weight.
She reached down, tentative at first, but dipping her delicate fingers under the water when she realized it was warm.
Let me have all of you like you have all of me.
The raft came apart but it didn’t matter – she was already slipping off it, a pale speck diving under the water that had so frightened her with its depth not long ago.
The silence here is loud in contrast to the loneliness above the surface, the light flitting along in the bubbles of air that rose up from her mouth as she sank slowly, slowly, slowly. And here, even floating towards the dark, there is life. Her skin sings with the whispering touch of fish, an octopus wrapping an arm around her thigh as she passes, the rough scratch of some shark gliding by. An entire world where she’d never thought to look.
The light disappears.
She is sucked backwards, suddenly hurtling towards the sea floor, threatening to hit its sandy bottom and dissolve in to a million pieces to match its grains.
But instead the sand is stars and she is floating weightless.
She doesn’t actually know anything of the ocean, beyond what she’s gathered from passing conversation of others. But she knows water, and she can imagine the sort of beasts that were named in a stranger’s conversation. It seemed, to her, an apt analogy for her life – except she was still on her raft, begging for the courage to slip beneath the waves.
Perhaps she dreams of the sea out of some memory from someone else, triggered by the salt-scent of the sea the stranger that appears carries with her. Anhedonia has never seen anything like her and is fascinated, though careful not to stare. Her mother had never been particularly attentive, and her Father had far too many children to pay attention to every single one – especially one like her – but she’d learned manners through observation. If she had noticed the mare staring at her, she wouldn’t have minded.
“Hello,” she answers as if the stranger’s sudden appearance wasn’t something to comment on. Anhedonia follows the other mare’s gaze, looking up at the mountain piercing the navy blue blanket of the sky. “Have you ever been up there?” she asks, wistful, unaware that such a journey would be nearly impossible. Her lungs would collapse before she reached the top, the air too thin to support her.
Anhedonia
i've grown familiar with villains that live in my head
they beg me to write them so they'll never die when i'm dead