Swim

I feel the welcome pressure of the icy liquid against my face, drowning out my senses. Swimming is my passion.

“Nat,” Zara’s screams are muffled by the rush of chlorinated water, “Natalie, we have to go! We are going to be late!”

I jump out of the pool and splash her, “Yeah, I’m coming.”

“Now my dress is soaked. What will those stuck up mansion-owning snobs think?”

“Sorry.” I mumble, I love her, but sometimes my sister drives me nuts. I live with her in an apartment on top of our shop, where we sell some of her paintings. Our parents died five years ago in a car crash.

“You better be. Be back out in ten. Not a minute later. If you screw this up, it’s not just your butt on the line. I will have to pay too. Be on you best behavior.”

“Yes, mom.”

“Nat. I’m serious.”

“I know, Zara.”

The dress I borrowed from Zara look like something a celebrity would wear. It is tight around my stomach and poofs out at my ankles, making me feel like a mermaid.

“Thanks,” I say walking toward the car, a 1999 black Mercedes.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” I say, “You don’t like it?” I feel disappointed, I thought I rocked this dress.

    “The dress looks better on you than me, but your hair is a mess,” She grabs a brush out of her purse and pulls all the tangles out of my hair.

“Ow.”

“There, now you’re beautiful...sweetie.” She plants a kiss on my cheek.

“Zara, we are in a public place. Do you have any self-respect?” I push her off of my face.

“I would do anything for you, pumpkin.”

“We’re on school grounds. People I know could see you harassing me right now.”

“No one I know, though. We gotta go, babe. I don’t have all the time in world.”

“Attention, attention,” Zara makes her way to the front of the crowd, “All of the art in this gallery is for sale and twelve percent of the money goes to the animal shelter on 3rd street.” She was supposed to say more about how ‘I’m so grateful everyone could come’ and how ‘those animals really need all the help they can get’, but people seemed to be paying more attention to the hors d’oeuvres than her.

“Nat, I need you to go downstairs and get some of the wine.”

“Zara, that’s not ours to give. It’s the landlords.”

“Get. The. Wine.”

“Fine.” I weave around the guests and run down the stairs to the cellar.

    It was dark in the cellar, everything covered in a thin layer of dust. The wines were in the right corner, in the very back. My foot misses a step and I tumble to the dirty cement floor.

I bite the inside of my lip so I don’t scream in surprise. My left leg feels like it got stabbed with a knife. I daringly touch my fingers to the spot of pain, wincing and pulling them back in surprise. In the dim light the liquid covering my skin looks opaque and dark. Blood.

I limp up the steps, hand Zara the wine, and run to my room to examine my injury. The blood had already dried and was sticking to the dress. My wound was starting to scab. I watched in disbelief as the crusty brown-that was, just moments before, covering the blood-peeled away to reveal unharmed skin.