And then the room turns to water. Hard to tell if the walls are weeping or if their image is deception of the dew. All four walls bugling toward the center, raindrops melting the clock and pushing the furniture slightly. I watch. Wide eyes fixed on the droplets membrane, sucking in air as the water moves forward, it’s cold and tastes like water. Chills run through her frame, fragile, cold, drowning, kisses her back as the water touches irises, nose and lips. All four droplets become one. We’re swimming.
Her lips are tight, eyes still wide-this isn’t real. Yet, she’s wet. She can feel her white dress move, her feet no longer on the ground, her butt not sitting in her chair, her chair no longer on the floor. Everything is floating, drifting in the water, moving, but only slightly. She’s screaming, literally screaming, in her mind as the bubbles begin to decorate wide, panicked eyes. Tiny oxygen filled bubbles all finding home upon her face, she can feel them-I can feel them! She can hear the narration in the back of her head. She doesn’t know that’s what it is. The clock ticks in that office, click away, but the tick is more tock as its sound slugs through the water. Does it slug at all? Twenty minutes… She’s gulping on closed lips still holding on to that last breath. Will that come? Will they see it? No-even though I can feel it! She’s screaming, screaming most literally in her head-the water soaks through, she feels huge raindrops in her skin. Tiny bubbles tickle, her eyes strain from the wet, but she cannot make a sound. The hem of her dress rising up as a lily blooms, upside down and just as confused. How long has it been? Her chest begins to pop, the calm flow of water disturbed, every object feeling her need to breathe.
Hands to her mouth, she wants to close her eyes, but she can’t. She’ll drown in the dark. Though, there’s no real reason why.
And then all at once, the clock ticks, but with more of a tock, the door opens and everything crashes into individual spots. Her butt hits the chair, the chair hits the ground, and her feet touch the floor with a start. She gasp, eyes wide as ever, the sound of water rushing away filling her ears. A babbling brook distorting sounds momentarily. No one will see this. Her dress clings to her flesh. She is still wet.
“We’ll be right with you” a man wearing glasses, and a white coat, holding a clipboard says. His voice more of a tick rather than a tock. Without waiting for response he closes the door, his footsteps splashing in the puddles left behind. She’s breathing heavy, a dying goldfish gasping, flopping, splashing in the shallow wet upon checkered tile floor.