Twelve Feet Deep

The first time I saw her naked, it wasn’t sexual. In fact, I try to think about it as little as possible. Nothing burns me worse than the haunted feeling I get from reliving that moment.

It’s strange; when that specific memory flashes across my mind in the dark blue void of early morning when sleep has failed to come to my aid, I think of vacant parking lots. Faded white lines and cracks in the pavement. I think of dead malls and how someone built those shiny, capitalist establishments with the intention of producing a successful consumer market, only to be disappointed in the end. I imagine ivy growing over the white walls of the aborted food court absent of pedestrian traffic, rust on the metal of the cages they lower over the entrance of each store when closing time comes.

I think of every futile idea failed to come to fruition and somehow it leads right back to her. It always comes back to her.

I remember it being particularly hot that day. I was going over to Andy’s to pick up a pedal I left during our last band practice. He’d kept the front door unlocked for me while he was at work, and as I stepped through the threshold, the eerie silence almost made my eardrums cave in.

Andy’s house always was a little creepy to me, mostly because it used to be his grandmother’s (and judging by the decorations, you could definitely tell it had been.) He moved here from Milwaukee when she got too old to take care of herself, and the rest was history. I was almost certain her ghost still occupied the place.

I figured I would hang around until he came home; I didn’t have anything better to do, anyway. As my footsteps echoed dissonantly up the stairs and down the hall, I made a mental note to turn on some music or something, anything to get rid of the ringing in my ears.

The bathroom light was on before I’d even stepped foot inside. Ghosts, I thought immaturely, almost laughing to myself as I pulled my zipper down. It was then that I heard something from behind the closed shower curtain in back of me: a measured movement in water. The grinning face of that girl in Chris’s pool flashed in my mind and I absently touched my lips, feeling an apparition of electricity from when she’d kissed me.

I kept glancing at the unmoving shower curtain, almost waiting for another chance to get spooked. I felt silly for having just the tiniest inkling of fear skitter across my mind, but something told me to check. So I did. I sighed at my meaningless apprehension, pulled back the curtain, and there she was.

I lied; that was the longest moment my heart ever stopped beating—not the roof incident. This was a thousand times worse, infinitely more horrifying and unimaginable, because this…this was real. There was no reassurance of her laughing in the pool. Nobody else was jumping in. I was left staring at her as she submerged herself under the bathwater and let the rest of her oxygen burst at the surface.

At first, I mistook it as a faux pas and immediately shoved the curtain closed again, apologizing profusely and stumbling over my words like a blushing preteen boy who’d just been caught eyeing Playboy under the covers when he was supposed to be asleep. I tried to forget her pink nipples and the sight of her unshaven (which was actually pretty cute, if I’m being honest here.) All I thought was that I’d just accidentally walked in on her bathing. I braced myself for the backlash that would typically happen in this situation, but there was no screech of, “Pervert!” or, “What the fuck are you doing in here, you sicko?”, and that’s what made my heart stop.

I swallowed, hesitating before I peeked behind the curtain again. Everything was a rapid blur before my eyes, yet moving painstakingly slow at the same time. I remembered my teenage self in instances like this, so close to nothingness until one of my parents found me. I was the parent now.

She looked beautiful underwater. I know it’s fucked up, but in that glacial moment, it was all I could think about. It was then that I realized just how long her hair was, thick and golden, swaying in waves all around her face. No lipstick this time. Her features looked almost ghostly and I prayed to whatever higher being that she hadn’t been down there for long.

Something heroic arose within me, and suddenly I was yanking her out of the tub, disregarding the water that splashed up and soaked through my clothes. A number of obscenities were spewed under my breath as my heart finally caught up with the adrenaline and hammered like a tribal drum. No pulse. No response. I plopped her on the tiled floor, frantically trying to recall any CPR lessons I might’ve retained from Boy Scouts, middle school health class, even Baywatch. I was desperate.

“Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead,” I kept repeating like a mantra.

After compressing her chest with no reaction, I did the only thing left: I brought my lips down to hers and asked God to do me a favor. One breath, two breaths, making sure to plug her nose. The last time we were like this, she was clothed in my lap on an old couch, not naked and nearly comatose on Andy’s bathroom floor. What was she even doing here anyway? Why couldn’t she drown herself in her own house? Why was she even trying to drown herself in the first place, and most of all, why was I trying to save her?

“I can see my house from here,” her far-off voice rang in my mind.

And then she did it. She sputtered to life and coughed up dirty bathwater—right into my mouth. I spat it out and sat on my knees, too elated to care. She was alive. This strange girl who’d already given me one suicide scare and randomly made out with me was alive.

And I didn’t even know her name.

I watched her roll onto her side, heaving in and out and sucking in the air like it was the most lavish feast imaginable. Even as an exposed, pitiful little girl caught in the act, I couldn’t stop staring at her. She was something else.

She finally calmed down, her breathing starting to regulate as she slowly slumped against the wall in defeat. She looked exhausted and disappointed. I wish I could’ve read her mind. Her gaze met mine for a moment before drifting down my body.

“Your fly’s undone,” she rasped. No, “Thanks for saving my life,” or, “Sorry I just gave you a goddamn heart attack.” I looked down anyway; she was right. And I still had to pee.

I didn’t say anything. I don’t even think I zipped up my pants, either. Instead, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her shoulders, making sure to move her hair to the side so that it wasn’t dripping down her back. Then she gave me the most confusing look on earth: heart-wrenching and apologetic and thankful in the most disillusioned way possible. Her eyes were the saddest shade of hazel I’d ever seen.

I stood up, fidgeting and unsure of what to do next. This girl enamored me and filled me with fear and made me want to cry all at the same time.

“Tell Andy I stopped by,” I muttered before walking out, almost slipping on the spillage collecting on the floor. I didn’t even grab my pedal downstairs.

When I overdosed two years later, I tried to picture how peaceful death would be, but I only saw her. I’m a coward because of her, but maybe I should be thankful for that. After all, she’s the reason why I always check the shower every time I use the bathroom.