Shipwreck

  Anna didn't think her week could get any worse. Staying up late at night working on her dissertation until her eyes dry up. A broken radiator in her dorm room and a resulting cold she can’t seem to shake. Her mother’s phone calls at dawn as she keeps forgetting the time difference. 

 Needing a break from it all, Anna has fled to the Tate Britain, her safe space, and now stands in one of the three giant rooms which exhibit magnificent oil paintings by the artist JMW Turner. She comes here often; thank God galleries in London are free. Her favourite are the seascapes, despite an irrational fear of drowning. “Don’t look for too long or you’ll make yourself seasick,” her boyfriend Tyler always jokes. Her shoulders grow lighter, her ever-present headache fades. She studies the cool blues and pale yellows, the white-capped waves reflecting the shimmering sunlight, boats gently making their way home. She even manages a genuine laugh when she sees Tyler arrive.    

  Until she realises Tyler is avoiding her gaze.

  “We need to talk,” he says as he stands in front of her, wringing his hands. He only does this when he has to do something he doesn't want to. Anna’s throat tightens. Not now. Not here.

  Her eyes slide off Tyler’s apologetic expression – has he been practising in front of the mirror before coming here? – to the painting behind him. She tries to recall its name. A Wreck with… something. She forgets the date, too.  

  Two small boats, mere specks of brown in the raging storm, struggle against the vast sea, a furious blur of greys and whites. Lurking near is the titular skeleton of a larger ship; a ghostly premonition, for surely those boats are about to be torn limb by limb. Anna can almost taste the salty water, feel the water tugging on her hair, her clothes. The people on the boats - what must be going through their minds? They must know it won't be a quick death. No, the sea is cruel like that.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Tyler is saying, but she can barely hear his words over the crashing of waves, “about us, I mean.”

  “I don’t…” Something is stinging her eyes. Is she crying? Instinctively, she wipes at her cheeks and is shocked at how wet and cold her skin feels.

  “And we’ve had a good time. I think you’re an amazing person. Honestly. I know I’ve been extremely lucky, and I hope we’ll always be friends. You–”

  His words are cut off by an ear-splitting groan. The floorboards beneath their feet creak so loud, Anna has to cover her ears with her hands.

  Tyler rolls his eyes. “I know you might not want to hear this, but please hear me out.” He gently takes her hands in his, and when he finds them as unmoving as a petulant child’s, lowers them forcefully.

  How can he not hear it? Like the splintering of wood. Anna looks around the room, rubbing the water from her eyes, but they are on their own. The realisation sends a shiver down her spine. 

  Her socks are drenched. Anna looks down and the water is already up to Tyler’s ankles. His brand-new sneakers will be ruined, she thinks dumbly, and tries to warn him: “Watch out – your shoes!”

  “My – my shoes?”

  The water is rising fast. There’s no time to explain, beg, argue. They have to get inside, grab onto something and hold on for dear life - maybe they can ride it out, emerge on the other side battered and bruised but still floating - or they’ll be thrown overboard. Anna reaches out to grab Tyler, but he pulls away, his cry of surprise muffled against the wind and rain. Just then, the ground tilts at an impossible angle and she staggers backwards. Her feet shuffle, slipping, and she almost falls. Her stomach heaves violently.

  Help me, she wants to scream and before she even knows what is happening, another tilt completely throws her off balance.

  She hits the water with such force all the air in her lungs disappears. Just like that. As if all her lungs have ever known is to fight. The waves spin her around; she can’t see the surface. A small part of her mind warns it is not the cold nor the water that kills, but sheer panic. 

  Another realisation: Tyler won’t save her. She is alone. She will drown.

 Instantly, Anna’s legs stop kicking. She lets her arms turn limp. The water enters her mouth, her nose, filling her useless lungs. She closes her eyes, and the darkness is comforting. No more responsibilities, she thinks, and the relief elicits a guilty giggle. She won’t have to finish her dissertation; she won’t need to get her radiator fixed. Won’t have to call her mother to tell her she’s been dumped.

All she will have to do, like those boats from the painting, is sink to the bottom of the sea, hauntingly beautiful despite being ravaged, and let the storm pass.  

  And yet her mind refuses to be silent. Does this have to mean the end? Water can mean so many things. Baptism. Cleansing. Rebirth. Emerging from the sea as a survivor, bare toes digging into the warm sand. It is a scene of salvage: broken pieces of wood and bits of loose cargo wash ashore as well. The image is almost blinding in its vividness.

With her remaining strength, she fights back, no longer afraid, but instead desperate and determined. Pushing every muscle beyond its capacity, she lets out a scream that begins as pain but quickly turns into a war-cry, louder and louder, even as the ice-cold water fills her mouth. Ascending towards the fractured light above her, bright and teasing, like a promise. I will walk in the light again.

 She breaks the surface, coughing and disoriented. Blinking the waterdrops away, she can see Tyler clearly again. She smiles. Her voice is steady when she speaks. “Of course, we can be friends.”