Sea Foam | ✓

iii.

Why were you so drawn to the beyond, sister?

What was so exhilarating about what happened above the water?

Was it even worth it?

You were eleven when you first gathered up the courage to ask Grandmother about when we could go up the surface. We were sitting in our gardens, admiring Atlantis from the top. Grandmother sat in a chair made of corals, gazing at the twinkling glow of the city at dusk.

I remember you were fidgeting so much, looking side to side, yet you did not tell me anything about what troubled you so.

"What is up there, Grandmother?" You finally blurted out, clutching your hands so tightly.

Grandmother gave you a seething look. She was always so strict. I don't blame her, she had lost her daughter— I think she always blamed herself with the circumstances of her passing— and everyday she had to look upon all of us who all carried bits and pieces of her within us, our faces, our voices. It must have been painful. But she did her best, she tried to be good to us.

"Man", she replied, taciturn.

You pondered over the word, turning it over with your tongue. "Man," you repeated. "Can I see it?"

"You can visit the surface when you turn fifteen years of age." Grandmother muttered. The peaceful atmosphere of the gardens was now dissolving into cold tension. All of us sensed it, except you. You pressed on.

"Why? Why can't we go now? Why is everyone so hesitant to tell me anything about the surface?" You cried.

"It is for a reason, girl," Grandmother said coldly. Then she got up. I watched silently as her eyes flickered and then landed on two merman courtiers who were minding their own business, possibly going to the main hall. She huffed loudly, "Go pester someone else, I have things to attend to."

She gave you a hard look. "Don't even think of going to the surface. It is not kind to any of you, it hates you. Man has a soul, and because of it, he is far crueler."

Ah, Grandmother. Ever so tactful.

First sister let out a sad sigh. "You just had to ask that, didn't you?"

"I don't see why everyone is so pressed about talking about the surface? I just wish—" You started, but second sister interrupted.

"You could at least think of what Grandmother thinks! She's worried about us... and after what happened to Mother..." She stopped. There was a sour taste in our mouths.

Mother was an unspoken truth in the castle. We did not talk much of her. All we knew was that she died a mere year after you were born, and that it... it ruined Grandmother forever.

"A-also, I heard that Man doesn't have a tail, but rather two legs! And—well, they don't look too kindly upon people with tails, like us," said Fourth sister in her quiet, hesitant voice.

You looked down. I saw your jaw clench harshly.

Mermaids cannot cry.

But if you could, I know you would be sobbing by then.

"Oh, shut up all of you. She's just eleven—she's just curious... leave her be!" I protested.

But you didn't hear, you just swam off. I gave our sisters a hard look, as though saying, 'Look what you did!', and then swam after you. I soon caught up to you.

"Don't be sad, glumfish," I said, patting you on the back. "First sister shall go to the surface this year, you can ask her about it."

"But she doesn't like humans, neither does anyone else! She wouldn't go and see for me," You said sorrowfully, wrapping your arms closer around yourself. "And I brought up Mother! I'm just— useless. Why can't I ever keep shut?"

You sucked in a breath sharply, your back heaving up and down as I softly held your hand.

"You're not stupid, glumfish. And I will see a human for you," I promised. "Even if First and Second sisters don't look for humans, I shall find one and tell you all about it."

"But that's two years away!" You cried, "That's too far away!"

"Either wait two years or four, your choice," I laughed, ruffling your hair, "Now, will you wait when I become of age?"

You nodded enthusiastically.

I wish I could have seen that gleam, the longing in your eyes, and recognised it sooner.

I wish I hadn't filled your head with empty dreams and hopeless hoping.