The Only Exception

Never had I ever thought I'd be in this sort of situation. I had always been careful about avoiding anything of the nature. Except for last night. One swim in the middle of a storm and I end up stranded on some land above water, too far from the crashing waves to scoot back without ripping my tailfin to shreds.

I'll die out here in this heat. The scales on my tailfin are drying at an alarming rate. For the first time in my seventeen years of life, my skin isn't lubricated by water. A sticky, red substance runs down my chest from a wound near my collar bone.

I suppose there's a positive: I'm not inhaling the blood from my wound mixed with seawater.

This has got to be some sort of sick joke or bad dream. I was content in the sea; I didn't want to see the human world. On my sixteenth birthday, I refused to travel to the surface, as it is accustomed for young merfolk to do in their sixteenth year of life. Looking around, it seems I made the right decision. There's nothing magical or attractive about it. It's ugly, sandy, and uncomfortable. I am not my older sister, whose fascination with the human world led to her own demise.

That stupid, little, red-headed bitch.

Perhaps I should accept my fate and die here on the boiling sand.

With a sigh, my body falls back on the grainy bed. It burns into my skin, cooking it like a human would a fish. That's how I'll die here, skin crisped to a golden brown, insides prepared for a feast.

My green orbs slip shut, unable to stay open under the pounding rays of the sun. I can feel those same rays attacking every part of my anatomy. It’s the most painful thing I've felt in my life.

"Hey, are you okay?" a voice yells.

I turn my head, using more energy than necessary, to spot the owner of the voice. The sun's rays immediately take the opportunity to eat at my exposed neck. In the distance is a figure, not one I can make out from my spot on the sand. The figure is coming toward me. I can see its legs pumping in long strides, carrying the top half with it.

Those legs will be carrying it back to the place it came from in fear once it catches sight of what I am. Merpeople are not the most reputable creatures.

As the thing comes closer, I can make out shaggy black hair on its head and a lanky frame. Its shirt is a brighter blue than the ocean with black stripes adorning it. A pair of pantaloons covers its non-mer appendages.

I think it’s a male. If not, a prepubescent female with ungodly height.

He slows his speed and comes to a complete stop within a few feet of my dying body. His eyes, which are the same color as the sea during a storm, glue themselves to my tailfin. I can see the realization contorting his face. In a matter of minutes, he'll run screaming.

"You're a merman," he says, entranced by the part defining my species.

His voice, though that of a male's, has a slight feminine hint to it. I'll admit I've never heard anything so beautiful.

"You can run screaming now," I reply.

The sound of my voice breaks him from the vice-like grip his interest in my fins had on him. He looks me in the eyes, seemingly appalled by my suggestion.

"Why would I do that?" he asks.

Humans must be stupid creatures. Much more stupid than we merpeople give them credit for.

"I'm a merman."

It seems like an obvious answer. This boy must know about mermen, or mermaids at the very least. We entice humans with our voices and outstanding looks, dragging them into the sea to their deaths. He looks no younger than sixteen; he would have to know something.

If I were him, I would get as far away from water as possible.

"But you're hurt. I can take you back to the castle and get you bandaged. Then let you back in the water."

A castle—with guards, a king and queen, their children, and staff members. That would be a truly unintelligent decision on his part. I could easily charm the whole castle with one song and have them diving into the waters.

But I'll bite on the kid's idea.

"How do you propose to get me there?"

"I'll carry you."

That scrawny thing thinks he can carry me?

I don't reply, only stare at him with what I hope comes off as doubt. He fidgets under my gaze, eyes darting around.

"Or I could fetch a wagon and use that to bring you," he suggests.

"What's your name?"

"Prince Gustav."

Dear Neptune, he's a prince. I hope he has an older brother who's a tad more intelligent to take over the throne.

"Well, Prince Gustav, you get that wagon here before I fry like a codfish and I won't kill you."