Breathe. [On-Hold]

Breathe.

Prologue

"-Like a shooting star

flying across the room

so fast so far

you were gone too soon-" 

~<*>~

My best and first memory of water is of my dad. 

The way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he grinned - his irises, the exact same bluish, greenish and greyish colour as the sea after a storm - that sparkled intensely as he spoke of the ocean and it's endlessly mysterious, thrilling depths. The way 6 year old me would perch myself on his lap, ears listening and curious eyes watching as he chatted excitedly about the new species of life he had found under the wide azure surface. The way I'd question with unending inquisitiveness about what it was like under the actual sea, and not the artificial pool, as he dived into training, large cylinder tanks strapped onto his back. The way he would put his soaked hands on my small shoulders, grinning, promising me that one day, when I got older, he would take me with him. Into the vast ocean, to see the fish, corals, through my own eyes instead of the stories of his.

My worst and last memory of water is also of my dad.

The way 11 year old me sat, not on his lap any more, but by his side, helping him secure the oxygen tank on his wet suit, tightening the black flippers against his feet. The way his blue eyes shone proudly as his crew watched in amazement at how his little daughter understood everything about diving gear, while theirs stayed back on shore, playing with dolls or crying about getting wet. The way he patted me on top of the head as he stood and tested everything out, making sure that I made no mistakes. The way, once I was done, I'd sit on one of the long seats by the boat, gazing down longingly at the deep blue sheet of water beneath me, wishing that I could just turn 12 already, and join my dad in his adventures. To me it just wasn't fair, having been the best swimmer in my senior class, being able to memorize all the instructions to being a scuba diver, yet not being able to actually be one because of my stupid age.

 The way I looked up hastily when my dad  ruffled my hair, telling me that it was time for his trip down into the vast. The way I nodded and hugged him, ordering, as I always did, to be careful. The ocean was a beautiful, serene place, but like anything else, it had its dangers. The way he laughed and gave me a kiss on the forehead, replying jokingly that of course he would return, for mum, and for me, with a souvenir from the deep, like he did in every trip. I smiled and hugged him one last time before wishing the other 7 members of the crew good luck. They all ruffled my hair before jumping elegantly into the sea. Splash. Splash. Splash. The last diver stopped and turned, so I could still see the bluish excitement and love behind his thick goggles before he gave me a thumbs up and he, following the others, jumped in. 

Splash.

I had smiled and showed him an 'OK' sign with my thumb and index finger before he dived into the water. I saw the tip of his black flippers before he and the others disappeared into an endless serenade of blue and green. 

Two hour later, the worst storm of the century hit Carapace Beach.

I had sat, drenched and wrapped in a towel as the driver put his arm around me, telling me that everybody would be fine. That this was the most experienced and professional crew of divers  in Carapace, California. I had watched, eyes wide and heart hopeful as the crew members popped up onto the surface, one by one, stumbling into the boat. 7 turning to 6, 6 turning to 5, 5 turning to 4, 4 turning to 3, 3 turning into 2-

But 2 didn't turn into 1.

Because 1 was the man who had loved the sea with all his heart. 

I had later discovered that Vincent Abraham Jonas had stubbornly tried to retrieve a Fulton Cowrie, one of the rarest and most beautiful shells in the world of the ocean, even though it was too far beneath his pressure levels. The storm had triggered a stronger than expected current, sucking the careless man deeper and deeper into the ocean. 

Martin, my dad's best friend, pried open my shaking fingers and placed a cold, yet somewhat beautiful object into my hands. It was a colour that was slightly darker than cream, yet lighter than brown, with uniquely breathtaking patterns carved onto its smooth surface.

The Fulton Cowrie in my trembling hands had taken the wrath of tears that streamed down my cheeks. 

My father had sacrificed his life to and for the two things that he loved most.

To the ocean.

For his daughter. 

~<*>~ 

[A/N]:

Yeah yeah, I know what you guys are thinking:

'WHAT IS SHE DOING? SHE HAS ANOTHER 3 WEREWOLF STORIES THAT ARE INCOMPLETE AND SHE'S POSTING A NEW STORY? AGAIN?'

Well I've got a severe case of procrastination-syndrome, guys. And I've got it bad. Does anybody have a cure? 'Cause I want it. 

And the keyword is the word 'werewolf'. I'm taking a break from writing long, dramatic fantasy stories. I just want to complete this short, human, does-not-involve-hot-guys-turning-into-furry-animals story. It's only going to be 3 chapters, give or take, long, so let me know what you think, 'kay? But I will try to update IDY when it hits 600 votes, and I'm already half-way down with the next chapter of WF.

71 votes on the last chapter, guys. I swear that you deserve a standing ovation. *clap clap clap*

There is romance in this story, but it'll only be brought up in the next chapter. This isn't a cliche story, if that's what you're thinking. Frankly, it's more to the importance of life than the dramas of love.

Think I should give this a shot at the Watty Awards 2014? 

VOTE/COMMENT/FAN. Tell me what you guys think, and I shall take the above question^ into consideration. :) 

Thanks for the support so far! x

-Utter