The Island

25. Tunnels

Jordyn

I land in inky darkness, ankle-deep in ice water. My legs tremble as they try to hold me up, and my good arm shoots out for something to hold onto as I sway. It comes in contact with sandpaper concrete, scraping away the top layer of my palm. I desperately cling to the dry surface and take a gasping breath as the panic sets in.

I can't see anything.

Even as I blink, my surroundings refuse to come into view.

The water washes over my feet, filling the tunnel with its music of whispers. That familiar ache of fear rises up, and the gentle movement over my feet begins to follow the fear up my ankles, over my knees, and into my stomach. I can feel it pressing into my lungs, drowning me.

The nightmare from nights before resurfaces, and my ears fill up with water. The dark fades away, and I'm surrounded by water. Bubbles rise around me, and I clench my eyes closed.

Don't breathe. Don't breathe.

Wait. No.

This isn't real.

Stop, stop, stop.

You are not drowning. This is all in your head. You are the ocean you're drowning in--not the water, not the fear, and not the panic.

I force my mouth open and take a deep breath, half surprised and half glad that I don't drink a mouthful of water. I blink a few more times, and shapes form in my vision. A tunnel stretches out in front of me with a dim white light far off in the distance. It bounces off the water and skips towards me, twisting and turning as the water refracts it.

I force myself to look away from the water. It can't be more than a few inches, but maybe if I ignore it, I can fight back the aquaphobia. It's really not that deep; I've drank out of water higher than this. At the very thought of drinking it, my mouth starts to water. When was the last time I hydrated myself?

Carefully, still clinging to the wall, I crouch in the water. Cold wind wafts up to greet my bare legs and arms. For a while, I had forgotten that one pants leg was shredded by the lion and the other leg and two sleeves were lost to the fire. I balance on the balls of my feet and let go of the wall. My hand shakes as I reach down and cup as much water as it can hold.

Most of the water is lost along the way, but what makes it to my mouth is gulped down. I scoop a few more handfuls up, until the soft headache relents and my lips aren't burning anymore. Then, I run some of the water over my dirt caked skin to brush the debri away. I can't see what color my skin is, but after a few minutes, it feels smoother than before, less gritty.

Is the same water that fuels the little creek by the clearing? It tastes just as clean and feels just as cold. Does it start from here or end up here? I focus for a minute on the flow of the water. It's pushing away from me. It has to be going or coming from somewhere. It can't just be flowing in circles.

Maybe if I follow it, I'll find out where the doors at the top of the volcano lead. Maybe I'll find a way out. Maybe I'll even find Sam.

That's a lot of "maybes".

A quote comes to mind from a washed-out memory.

Hope is a fragile thing that manifests in the mind of desperate people.

What a terrible, pessimistic way to think.

I look up at the light in the distance, rising into a standing position once again. Water drips from my fingertips as I reach up to grip the wall. Another black thought enters my mind.