Force Of Nature

**TW: Themes of mental illness**

The ocean calls to me.

Sometimes when I sleep with my windows open, I can hear the trancing rhythm of its waves hungrily lapping at the shore, whispering my name. Sometimes they say other things, too.

I tried to tell my mother about the whispers, but she just kissed my forehead and said I was being silly. I don’t think the ocean liked that. It whispered extra loud that night.

Am I the only one who can hear the ocean’s voice? I hope so. I don’t get chosen often. It would be nice to have the ocean choose me, even if it is scary sometimes and tells me it is going to devour me.

It didn’t always whisper.

It used to be silent, just a body of water trying desperately to crawl its way onto land, only to be sucked back by its own currents.

It didn’t have to speak for me to know it was frustrated.

That’s why I would dig a hole every time I went to the shoreline, digging my fingernails into the sand to carve a channel from the hole to the shoreline, urging the water down the trail and cheering when it finally swept into the pit.

That made the water happy. It would bubble cheerfully, splashing up against the walls and swirling gracefully down the torrent.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still hungry .

Every time I looked away, the sea would become too greedy and corrode the walls of the hole, sucking sand down into its three-foot depths.

That night was when the whispers started.

Child,

Child.

Can you hear me?

“Who is there?” I had whispered, clutching my bed post.

So you can hear me. How wonderful.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Need I?

My brain was involuntarily flooded with images of crashing surf and white-tipped waves, peaceful sunsets and tidal waves.

I need your help, young one. Will you help me? The ocean had asked. Its voice was sweet, but in a sickly way. Like maple syrup mixed with vinegar. I hadn’t responded, but it didn’t matter - the ocean spoke to me the next night, too. And the one after that… until finally I just accepted that I wouldn’t get to sleep as long as the ocean was left unanswered.

Besides, I had never felt needed before.

It was a good feeling, for as long as it lasted.

***

When you go to the beach on a lovely sunny day, what do you see? Surely you don’t see what I see; a trapped monster biding its time. You probably see picturesque waves and painted skies.

Those cheerful little waves are only distractions from the tidal waves and floods in the rest of the world, the ocean keeping us calm as it punishes us for keeping it trapped.

At least, that’s what I dreamed last night.

It is rather frightening to think that the same ocean I splash about in nearly every day is the same one that devours villages purely for the sake of doing so… I think my mind is still heavy from sleep; these thoughts do not sound like mine. I love the sea. The sea is my friend.

I remember when the sea first asked my name.

I told it, “Jordan.”

It chuckled and told me I had a good name, and asked if I knew what it meant.

I said yes, it means ‘one who descends’.

That made it happy. It murmured, Yes, this one is perfect.

I asked what it meant but I don’t think it wanted me to hear, because it didn’t answer.

I’m glad I’m perfect, even if I don’t know what for. It makes me feel useful.

Today, I swam. The ocean didn’t whisper, which was odd, but at least I got some peace and quiet.

Peace and quiet is lonely.

***

I wake up again this morning and tell my mother about the ocean’s calls, and again she tells me I’m silly.

This time I know the sea is angry because it steals her designer sunglasses as she tans on the beach.

The sea is getting louder.

It still calls to me at night, but they are angry calls; the scolding of a parent to a pet who has gone astray.

I eat my breakfast quickly, choking down slimy eggs and struggling to swallow dry pancakes so that I can run down the ridge to the shoreline.

Our house rests on a hill, veiled from the street by trees but open to the water. The path down to the ocean is well worn, but still quite rocky and hazardous on blustery days - which, it always seems to be a blustery day here. Sometimes I wonder if our home was cursed to have bad weather for eternity.

Today, the rocks are slick from last night’s rain, and on the way down the ridge I slip and cut my ankle on a sharp stone.

“Ouch.” I hiss, bending down to press my palm to my now-bleeding ankle. A warm feeling greets my skin, and I peek through my fingers to see a trickle of red. My vision gets blurry. My head begins to ache. I cannot stand the sight of blood.

Inhaling sharply, I clamp my hand back down on my wound and close my eyes, ignoring the sharp sting as my sweaty palm comes in contact with my cut.

I glance back at my house. The curtains are open, giving a glimpse at the not quite warm, not quite welcoming light from inside. I really should go back and clean my cut, but…

I turn my eyes to the ocean. The waves are harsh today, they seem to snarl as they crash onto the rocky shore, grabbing at anything they can and pulling it down into them.

So close,

The voice whispers in my head.

So close… just join us.

I frown and swat at my ear, as if brushing away a mosquito.

Join us.

I stand up quickly, biting my cheek as a brief wave of lightheadedness sweeps over me. I know I should go home, but I won’t stay down for long. I just want to see the ocean. To touch it.

Brushing my hands off on my gray plaid skirt, I slowly pick my way down the remainder of the ridge and step into the slightly damp sand. It sticks to my sandals immediately.

The wind howls angrily, blowing my long black hair in front of my face and into my mouth. I spit it out, wrinkling the bridge of my nose.

The sound of the waves is louder now that I am level with the ocean, sand sticking to my feet and stinging my legs as the wind picks up.

Just a moment. I grind my teeth. Just a touch.

The ache in my head moves to the back of my head, as if some hidden force is punching against my skull; expanding and urging me forward.

One step. Two. The sand underneath my feet turns cold and grainy as I near the water.

I didn’t notice it at the time, but later on as I thought about it I realized that all other senses had… disappeared. I could no longer hear the rhythm of the waves, or feel the chilling wind on my face. My eyes were fixed on the water, and my feet moved automatically until my toes brushed the water.

I cried out as a cold shock shot up my leg, feeling deeper than the usual shock of cold water. The voice of the ocean roared unintelligibly in my head, and, sobbing, I ran the whole way back to my house.

That night, I fall asleep almost immediately.

I had hoped for a peaceful sleep, but even my dreams are filled with waves and silt.

I am at the beach. Of course; I am always at the beach. Mother says I should have been a fish.

The sky is an unnatural shade, gray and green and yellow and blue all at once. I hold up my hand. My skin holds the same odd tint as the sky.

“You really won’t give me a break, will you?” I grumble, but I’m not angry.

“Not until you do what I want.” the sea replies, swaying calmly against the rocky shore. There is something off about the water in my dream, it is too… dark. Like it is stained with ink.

“I don’t know what you want.” I point out, flinching and drawing a hand to my chest a sharp pain stabs my lung.

“Oh, but you do.” The sea’s voice is sharp and gravely, like glass scraping against cement. “You always have.”

My heart pounds in my chest. Have I? Part of me knows that I have, but the other part says that this is a bad idea. What about mother? This would crush her.

Suddenly, I desperately want to wake up.

The sea seems to sense my thoughts - because as I take a small step back, a rushing sound fills my ears. I cry out, clutching my head as a sharp pain erupts in my temples.

“You would do well to remember all I’ve done for you. I’ve kept you company when you were alone. I’ve listened to your tears when no one else would. I. Made. You.”

The sea’s voice goes cold and deep, like the restrained bellowing of an ancient creature. I crumple to the ground, head in hands.

“Fine! I will. I’ll do whatever you ask.” My voice says, but I don’t remember speaking.

The pain subsides, quieting to a bearable pang in the back of my eyes.

“Very well. Sleep tight, little one. As of tomorrow, you belong to me.”

I wake with a start, the sea’s words ringing in my ears. You belong to me.

I sit up in bed, pressing a warm hand to my forehead. For such a blustery week, I am unusually warm.

In a daze, I stumble over to my open window and gaze out with still-sleeping eyes at the crashing waves below. The white-tipped waves seem to sense my gaze and begin to thrash harder, the froth taking the shape of an anguished face wailing for mercy.

For a split second, it looks exactly like me.

***

The sky is gray.

Mother always said that gray is a sad color, and reminded her of storms and bad days. I do not agree. I think that gray is a peaceful color; it makes me think of pretty rocks and baby elephants.

This particular shade of gray reminds me of cloudy glass or something like that. Not quite white, just transparent enough to catch a glimpse of the dark sky behind those cotton clouds. It looks like it might rain later - which is why I came first thing in the morning. It wouldn't do to have rain spoil my plans.

I slide my sandals off and tuck them into a nook beneath a giant oak root. I won’t be needing them anymore.

Though, maybe I should have worn them down the rock ledge. I sigh. Oh well.

The rocks are sharp against my bare feet as I make my way down the ridge, but between the cooling breeze and pleasant hum of the distant waves; it isn't enough to faze me.

After only a few times of being stabbed by a rock, or nearly rolling my ankle; I reach the sand.

As soon as I am roughly twenty feet away from the water, a strange feeling settles over me, dampening my determination. It feels like crossing an invisible force field or barrier. I get that faint feeling that I should run, but I don’t want to. The ocean is calling me, and I must answer. I force myself to keep walking.

Time seems to slow as I reach the water, and for a split second I wonder if maybe I was wrong to tell the ocean my name - but a strong pull like a current urges me forward and instantly my worries vanish, and all I can think of is the wild waters that beckon me onward, greedily surrounding my ankles as I step into the surf.

The water is cold, sending a chilly shock through every vein as it climbs higher up my legs. It hurts… but it feels wonderful. I need it.

Step after step, wave after wave; I walk deeper and deeper until the icy chill reaches my hips, making my skirt flare up in a way mother would never approve of.

A sharp gust of wind makes me lose my balance for a split second - in which the ocean frantically slams me from the side.

As I stumble, I catch a glimpse of a seagull circling low overhead. At first it looks like an ordinary bird, but as I look at it, something feels… off. Its eyes are too dark. Its legs are too long. Its beak is too sharp. I squint at it, and I could almost swear it shakes its downy head at me in warning - but then I regain balance and it soars away, unbothered by the harsh wind.

Odd. I think, but my mind has already reattached itself to the thought of making the ocean happy.

My white blouse clings to my skin as it soaks up the freezing water, which climbs higher and higher until the only thing above water is my head and the very tips of my shoulders.

I take one final step, the water caressing my neck like a starving predator - and I could almost swear that the ocean gives a shudder of pleasure as my head slips under its ravenous depths.

And then there is dark.

***

The dark lasts for seemingly both a few seconds and an eternity until in a flash of light my head breaks the surface and I gasp, choking on the salty waves as they sting my eyes and flood my ears.

Why am I alive? I blink rapidly, both trying to expel the water from my lids and also grow reaccustomed to the blinding light of the sun. Hadn’t I given this up? The sea had asked, and I’d obeyed - wasn’t I supposed to be gone?

I flounder clumsily, gasping for air and flinching in shock as my feet brush the seaweed covered bottom. I wasn’t very deep, then.

Maybe the sea had decided I wasn’t perfect, after all. The thought made me sad.

I gag, choking on seawater as I hold my head above the surface. I appear to be in a harbor of sorts, surrounded by fishing boats and small sailboats. My hand catches on something hard as I flail - if I had come up only a few feet to the left, I would have hit my head on the side of a thirty foot-long fishing boat. I thrust myself sideways, grabbing the ladder holds on the side of the boat. I hope the owners don’t mind that I’m using their boat to get back to land.

As I heave myself up, my mind races. How long had I been under? And how did I end up in a harbor? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I had done something wrong, or else I wouldn’t still be here. Right?

Oh, well. I would figure that out later - hopefully the sea wasn’t too angry. I don’t know how I could bear another sleepless night of listening to the sea take its rage out on my town for something I had done.

For now: I was hungry - a sort of starving I had never experienced before. It felt old and deep, making my chest ache with the weight of it.

My clothes release streams of water, my skin slick. I frown down at the spreading puddle I’m creating on the deck. Oh, well. Not much I can do about it - and I don’t want to go to find a mop for fear of trailing even more water. Best to just get off quickly and figure out how far I am from home.

I start quickly towards the ladder on the opposite side of the boat, but as I pass the cabin I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window, and my hand crawls up to my mouth.

My skin is pasty and white, tinted green in places with algae. My long black hair is snarled with seaweed and fishing line, and my once-blue eyes are now fully black.

A fish hook is stabbed through my left cheek - but instead of blood, seawater streams from the wound.

I feel strangely calm as I finger the fish bones piercing the nape of my neck, causing saltwater to trickle down my collarbone.

My eyes trail downward to see that my white blouse and black skirt has been torn and snagged by fishing lures, patched over with algae covered nets, pieces of glass and plastic twined throughout.

I was one with the sea.

My eyes and sunken cheeks carried the same hunger that the waves shrieked of as they crashed onto the sand, and my ragged shoulders bore the weakness of being fed nothing but garbage for as long as it could remember. The ocean is hungry, and I need to feed it.

Almost without meaning to, I turn away from my reflection and stroll into the control room.

Apparently the boat wasn’t empty after all, because as I turn the corner the Captain and who I can only assume is his son shriek upon seeing me, but I don’t react. It is alright to be afraid, just so long as they cooperate.

“It is time to feed.” I say, but it isn’t my voice.

It is the ocean’s.

If you see my mother, tell her she was right.

I was just being silly.

The ocean didn’t choose me.

It chose all of us.