Page 107 of Head Under Water

A wet hairline beaded with steam.

Dark eyes.

Mouth set in a hard line.

My thoughts fracture. My chest screams. I’m imagining things. I have to be. My mind has given up. Given me a friendly face for comfort in the end.

No. Not like this.

My heel connects with something solid. A shin. A thigh. He’s standing in the bathtub with me, using his full weight to hold me down. The water sloshes over the rim, soaking fabric, splashing onto the tile.

My lungs seize. I’ve never felt pain like this.

I don’t know how long it’s been—it feels like hours—but it has to be over soon. It has to be.

With one final, desperate attempt, I twist to the side violently and manage to wrench my mouth from his grasp for a fraction of a second. Darkness flashes across my face, another eclipse, as he stumbles forward. Light. Then dark. Then light again as he fumbles for his footing, catching himself on the side of the tub.

I break the surface with a desperate gasp. Air knifes into my chest like shattered glass, but the pain doesn’t end. It only splinters. Because this isn’t my brain protecting me. This is real.

Disbelief claws at my brain. I gasp in breaths, desperate to find my center of gravity again. The ceiling swims above me, warped and unfamiliar.

He grabs hold of me without a word, shoving me back under.

Water floods my mouth, and my vision sparkles with tiny white bursts.

Stars. No, not stars. Nerve endings misfiring in warning.

Death. I’m dying.

My scalp screams when he grabs a new handful of hair, using all his weight to slam me against the bottom of the tub.

I can’t fight anymore. I don’t want to.

And so, I don’t.

My body goes slack. I’m everywhere and nowhere all at once. The roaring fades to a dull hum, like a radio losing signal.

This is the end.

Somewhere in the darkness, I feel his grip shift. Lighten.

Something sparks in the depths of my consciousness.

I turn my head and sink my teeth into whatever flesh I can find—his thumb. He rears back, shouting. I surge upward.

My head pounds, and every breath feels like a shard of glass. I’m not even sure how I’m moving, but something propels me forward. Something stronger than willpower.

My hand finds the heavy ceramic soap dish near the faucet. I swing without thought. It connects with the side of his head, a dull crack.

Banks staggers back, blood immediately threading through his blond hair, like water from a hose snaking through the grass. His hand goes to his head, his face wrinkling with fury. “You⁠—”

I scramble out of the tub, water sloshing onto the floor. I grab the towel, wrapping it around myself.

I need to think. To move.

My phone is on the nightstand, but do I have time to call anyone? I should run. I should grab a knife. I should find my keys.

My keys.