Beneath These Waves

Chapter Four

We're sitting in an assortment of chairs- one of the stools, Cal's desk chair, and a chair snatched from the card table. Not everyone makes it up to the counter, and our heights are all thrown off. Because of the chairs, Ser is taller than me, and Cal is shorter than me. It's all mixed up and wonky, it makes me want to rearrange us until we form a straight line.

The paper trembles in my hands, like a leaf in the wind.

"What's going on?" Ser murmurs, looking at the slit of the window that's by the sink. It's nothing compared to the giant one in the viewing room. Maybe it would have been more poetic to hold this meeting there. But this isn't about being poetic. This is about dealing with this note, a catalyst towards change of an unknown variety. It could be good, it could be bad. That's what we have to find out.

"It's... difficult to explain." I brandish the note, holding it up so they can see the print. "I found this in Dad's room, in the drawer of his bedside table."

"Why'd you go in there?" Ser's tone is judgmental, contrasting with her sugary sweet appearance. She's always so talkative. Much more than me and Cal. Although now I'm forced to use a part of me that hasn't fully grown in yet, now that Dad is gone. We're adapting. We're shifting.

"I don't know. It doesn't matter."

I'm starting to feel uneasy. The mood of our conversation is completely different, there's a weight to it, a purpose. This isn't just us casually discussing starfish and what's for dinner.

It doesn't help that I've been away from the control panel for nearly an hour. I itch to get back to it, to return to my home in this place. Here, out in the open, I don't belong. If I'm gone for any longer, disaster could strike, I'm surprised it hasn't already- the sub veering off course, or losing its stability, or something else equally terrible.

"Can I read the note?" Cal looks as uncomfortable as I am. It matches her more though, I see her like this all the time. Like she's walking on shards of glass and smoldering coals.

"Yeah."

I slide the note over and wait. It's between Cal and Ser, and their eyes are scanning it, worried, frantic. There's a light in them that flickers on and off, inconsistent, and it's terrifying.

Louise was so much easier to read. These two are my sisters, and I think that's what makes them so unfamiliar. We're crammed together all the time, so we feel obligated to hide from each other. There is no connection. We keep things hidden, so the secrets don't slip out.

The only time I let anyone know anything was again, Louise. Love does that to you, I guess.

I bat her away from my brain, and the thought tumbles to the floor.

Ser slams her hand on the table. "What is this? Are you sure you didn't write it yourself?" She's crying again, the quiet type of tears, the ones that would go unnoticed in a crowd, but not here, when it's just the three of us.

"No, it's Dad's. Don't you recognize his handwriting?" I float my hand over the paper.

"What do you think he means by 'final request'? Cal asks, twisting in her seat, her torso oriented one way, and her legs oriented the other.

"I'm not sure. I can't think of anything. And trust me, I tried. He seemed so happy here, so fulfilled."

"Maybe." Ser says. "But isn't the only way to find out what's going on is to go to the study?"

She's right, but I'm clinging to the idea that ignorance is bliss. Knowledge is dangerous, maybe that's why Dad only observed and never concluded. Because if you aren't careful, you'll waltz right past the breaking point, over the edge. You'll get swallowed by the tragedy of knowing too much, too aware of the flaws of the world and yourself.