Ocean's Daughter

Trust me when I say that the only thing scarier than being seconds away from drowning is, in that moment, feeling a hard and slimy thing slap against your leg. Not only was I going to drown, but a shark or a giant squid or whatever the fuck ocean monster it was, was going to chew my dead body up and leave my family without an explanation. It's fucking terrifying.

The only thing that makes it slightly less terrifying is the fact that, hey, I can breathe.

And then once I cough a few times and fully regain control of my breathing, it gets a lot less terrifying because my feet are touching land and, more than that, there's some girl holding onto my arms like her life (rather than mine) depends on it. Without words or answers, she steadily leads me to the safety of the shore, but from what I can tell, I'm nowhere near Branson or his truck. It doesn't really make sense but I'll roll with it; I mean, I'm not drowning and there’s a pretty girl above me, so, really, things were starting to look up compared to what they were seconds ago.

I can feel it -- there's still water in my lungs as she drags me to shore, and it takes a minute or two to cough it all up and even then, my throat burns. Heavy breaths wrack my body, but I manage to calm myself enough to thank my mystery savior.

"Thank you," I mumble, rolling over so instead of face-planted in the sand, I'm on my back and staring at the girl. It's dark so I can't see much, but she's crouched down close and dark hair hands around her face. I squint. "How...why..."

There's a lot of questions I want to ask, but almost dying kind of takes the talk right out of you. As much as I want to know her name, know why she was in the middle of the ocean in the middle of the night, know how someone with arms as skinny as hers' was able to pull me a hundred yards to shore, the questions die on my lips.

Her head nods slightly. "You're okay," she whispers, and it's like. Fuck, it's like music.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I agree. "Are you?"

It's kind of a stupid question because she looks totally fine, almost unfussed by all that just happened. Like it's the kind of thing she does everyday - save poor, drowning surfers in her free time. Hell, she's practically smirking. It's not a smile, or anything mean, but a small turn of her lips that allows a little bit of emotion to shine through.

"I'm okay," she says lightly, and it sounds like she's mocking me. The fuck?

“Okay,” I say slowly, carefully. She tilts her head, amused. “Um. Not to be rude because you’re totally great for saving me out there and I totally owe you one, but. Who are you? And why were you out there? And did you happen to see a doofy looking guy, about 6 foot tall, ugly red truck?” As I say it, I shift so that I’m leaning back on my elbows instead of straight on my back. I take the liberty to spare another glance at her and – oh.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

All the energy I had lost in my struggle with the sea returns as I scurry backwards, shuffling to my feet to get away from the girl. No way. There is no fucking way. My feet are frozen in their spots and I can’t find it in myself to say anything else. Still, the girl – no, the thing – remains in her position, sitting so that her tail lays to the side and her weight is on her hands. She has a small smile on her face.

“You’re a fish.”

My life was saved by a fucking fish girl.

This little laugh escapes her lips and she ducks her head – the thing is like a fucking school girl with scales. I should probably run. Find Branson, tell him that a fish saved my life, and go home and sleep for about 12 years. But there’s something about how she’s just looking at me, head tilted, that keeps me there. She’s silent for several moments, so I try again.

“You’re a fish.”

Another giggle.

“Are you going to say anything or….?”
She shifts, turning away now. She glances back at the water, back at me, then further down the beach. The moon is giving off just enough light that I can see a figure slowly making the trek towards us. Branson. It has to be Branson. God, he’d never believe me.

“Is that the doofy one?”

My eyes narrow and, against my better judgement, I find myself taking a step towards her. The thing is, she saved my life, so chances are that she isn’t some man-eating fish lady. But still, there was something unnerving about her. I try one more time.

“Yes. Are you a fish?”

“That’s just a silly question,” she whispers, shaking her head. “I’m sure you’ve seen fish before – do I look like a fish?”

“Lady, you have a tail. If that doesn’t make you a fish, I don’t know what does. I bet you have gills hidden somewhere, don’t you?”

Another fucking giggle. She’s a happy little fish. I look and Branson is getting closer; something tells me that him meeting fish lady won’t go over well. He has a tendency to. Well. He’s a fucking dumbass, is the thing. So if he sees a girl with a tail, there’s no telling what he’ll do. Branson will be within hearing distance soon and hear that he’s talking with someone. He wants to end the conversation now. Fortunately, fish lady must be thinking the same thing.

“We prefer mermaids,” she says, the smirk returning. “And yeah, the gills? Here.”

And if I thought I’d seen it all, I was fucking wrong. Then the girl turns, her bare tits to me, and shows me the line of gills that run down the sides of her neck. What the fuck.