In the Midst of Monsters

Chapter 3: Whispers from the Abyss

"In a hazy whirl of water, breath, and a vanishing sense of reality, I find myself in the family bathtub. A place where one might imagine rubber ducks and innocent giggles, not a battle between life and oblivion. Yet here I am, with the water as my silent adversary."

"Bubbles burst in frenzy from my lips as I attempt to cry out, to scream. But it's futile, only more water invading, suffocating me. My vision narrows to a fading speck. The encroaching cold is the herald of a creeping demise. Shadows gather at the periphery. A turbulent panic is battling within, but beyond it is a bizarre, peaceful allure, like a lullaby within a tempest. Air is a luxury relinquished, and I'm back to gasping, struggling for a fragment of breath. My body convulses, swallows water instead of air. Fear and bile mingle as I'm left, a submerged rodent in a trap crafted by my mother. Ladies and gentlemen, we have innovative discipline, pain without a trace."

Lisa's sharp intake of breath punctured the previous silence, the calculator tumbling from her hands and clattering disruptively, becoming an abrupt interlude to the engulfing tale of Jack's past.

Instantly, all eyes converge on her, including those of her teacher, Mr. Clark, expecting an explanation.

"Sorry, I just..." she stammers, scrambling for an excuse, "I thought I saw a spider."

Mr. Clark eyes her warily, but soon refocuses on the chalkboard, with the class following his lead.

Lisa's trapped in her second-period math class, with Mr. Clark's droning voice merely serving as background noise.

While her textbook lies open, the dance of numbers and diagrams becomes inconsequential. Physically present, yet emotionally absent, she's engrossed in the journal concealed in her lap, every line resonating like a mournful tune.

She scans the room, attempting to match names to the faces of the boys in her class. Could any of them be Jack? Curiosity gnawing at her, she immerses herself once again in the notebook as it continues its tale.

"Then, surrender. A silent acceptance, everything slows, stills, calms. I am left there, laying in this porcelain coffin, my body shackled by a weight, a heavy, unknown weight pressing against my chest, stealing my freedom."

"Water, it's there, right at the brink, forcing me, forcing my neck to arch, to strain, my lips and nose barely, desperately above the line, above the liquid death. Each breath is a war, a fight against the suffocating liquid, a fight against the ending that's whispering, whispering in my ears, beckoning me to the void. Distant grows the world, as my heartbeat parades dominantly within my ears, except for a basketball, its rhythmic thuds and children's laughter, penetrating through the open window, oddly incompatible with my near demise. The darkness advances, and an uncanny tranquility prevails." 

"Those children often wander into my thoughts, their carefree joy contrasting my grim presence in the serene suburban cul-de-sac where my single-story residence with the number 664 resided. It might have been a cruel cosmic jest to place us in the house across the street, numbered 666, a more fitting emblem for the nightmare that was my childhood. Then again if God really did exist I hope he would've spared me my entire macabre existence completely."

"Within the house? A standardized bedroom: sterile blue beddings, a collection of white shirts hung in order, shorts and pants meticulously folded. Toys are a missing entity. Only a bookshelf stands, displaying four classics: 'Snow White,' 'Huckleberry Finn,' 'Robinson Crusoe,' 'Black Beauty.' "On the rare days when strangers visited," the journal murmured, "that room served as my refuge, the books, my partners in concealment. A polished disguise to hide my harsh reality."