I stood at the precipice of life and death. When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions, was a Shakespeare line I could not help but remember in lieu of the grey skies, almost out of a black and white television. How could he describe melancholy so aptly? Yet you’re expected to keep on as the battalions pierce your heart, still beating despite it all.
It was a beautiful view from the cliff, truly. My bare feet were caressed by the emerald green grass beneath me, and if I stared at the horizon line, I could see puffins flying from their nests and down to the water to catch fish, get their keep for the day. The most difficult part was looking below at the cerulean waters, the waves crashing against the arrowhead shaped rocks and crags, and there I was wondering how my body would look as a bloated, watery grave. I’d be discovered in a day or two, surely battered by the rocks that stood as my obstacles. My corpse would be remembered more than any life I ever lived, because ordinary people are transfixed by death.
I witnessed Ophelia’s fate for myself in the Tate Britain, death surrounded by flowers, body transformed into a woman of purity. My death wouldn’t be viewed that way in life. It is more accurate to say it would be like Frida Kahlo’s famous painting I wished I could remember, as my tears poured, blood splattered at the bottom of the canvas, the goddess-woman looking directly at the viewer. I would like to think my death would be a private affair. Yet, why are my hands shaking that there’s nobody with me now? I would ask my best friend Nikki, my love, to hold my hand as I jumped, if I could, if I risked selfishness in my final moments. tail.
I waited seconds, minutes, hours. I dragged my feet along the grass. You would do anything to escape this death, I taunted myself.
Finally, I readied myself to jump.
And then I saw it.
It was a glimmer in the water, a white diamond in the sea. It didn’t move, it disappeared and then appeared again in rhythm with the waves. I could almost convince myself my eyes deceived me. I wanted to convince myself my eyes deceived me. But it looked like a face. I swore I could see two rubies glimmering and the flicker of a tail.
I thought back to my childhood when I would dive into the swimming pool, blue waters reflected by the sky and tiles, and would be surprised that all I saw wasn’t blue. In fact I remember being surprised at its translucence, that I wasn’t swallowed whole by a singular color. I remembered holding my breath for as long as I could, Nikki and I playing colors, a game of her invention where she would hold me underwater for four seconds, then eight, then twelve if I guessed the wrong color. I wouldn’t die if I jumped into these waters, I’d gone cliff jumping before in Italy, when my brother pushed me and I fell like an angel, afraid I would hit my head on a crag, before I resurfaced, alive and laughing and cursing at the frigid water. And I remembered my lifetime belief in mermaids, which surely wouldn’t be remembered if this were truly my last seven minutes in life. I realized then that my tears had ceased.
I didn’t jump. I backed away until the ocean was no longer visible, and then I ran. I ran down the winding cobblestone steps, wincing as gravel buried itself into my heel. I ran as wind and rain caught through my jet black hair and puddles of water threatened to make me slip, droplets of water obscured my vision. I remembered then every fairytale told to me.
When I arrived at the water, I saw her beauty and it unmade me. She leaned against a stone, smiling, and I wondered how thalassophonia could even exist. The mermaid had teeth, teeth like a vampire, and I wanted those teeth to puncture me. Her skin was as white as spoiled milk. And her hair, blacker than mine, blacker than black seemed dry despite the downpour coming down on both of us. What was inhuman about her was her ears, spiked and shaped and threatening to stab me. I stared at her, I stared at her blood red eyes, I stared at her piercing smile, I stared at her and wondered why I would ever want the fate of Ophelia.
Danger radiated from her, but she smiled so innocently. So innocently in fact I felt myself melting into the water, waist deep in the waves, and I felt her cold hand in mine. By the time I was shoulder deep, I broke out into a swim, feeling her warmth all around me. That’s when I saw her tail, her grey tail that simultaneously reflected all the colors of the rainbow, like sequins on a pillow. I put my head underneath the water. Fish seemed to surround her as if she was queen and they were her subjects. They now nibbled at my feet and swarmed me like a crowd of bees. And she laughed, her laugh the discordant sound of a storm.
I knew it couldn’t be forever. I knew after my night spent with her I would be right back in the real world, contemplating my woes and fighting off battalions. But isn’t it nice to imagine that things could change? Isn’t it nice to have aquamarine lips on yours as you swim hand in hand in the dangerous sea?
Emily Rutz is an English Major and Minors in Professional and Technical Writing and Creative Writing. ER1034711@wcupa.edu.