Bubbles
--Two--Five--Nine--Ten--
Nick had heard once that drowning was like going home.
--Eleven--Thirteen--Fourteen--
He had also been told that the human body would always try to breathe. Even when underwater.
--Sixteen--
Respiration is an involuntary response, there is nothing that a person can do to stop it. It's like a safety switch in the mind. Life will try to find a way.
--Seventeen--Eighteen--
As the bubbles rose, creeping towards the surface of the water, at least one of these facts was proven correct. Nick held his mouth closed and his lungs tight. But air was conspiring to leave his system. Life was finding its way.
--Nineteen--
Even as breaths forced their way out of his body, Nick wasn't sure how long he intended to stay under. The sage advice from long-forgotten friends had echoed around Nick's mind, and the lukewarm water had offered its morbid charms a little too loudly.
--Twenty--Twenty-One--
Life had been hard enough recently. Perhaps a little too hard. With no stronger lead to follow, Nick had made a choice: he wanted to find his way home.
--Twenty-Two--
Whatever that meant. It didn't really matter: clarity was little more than a conviction. He didn't expect to find either at the bottom of a puddle of water.
--Twenty-Three--
He was well passed twenty involuntary bubbles now. As expected, it hadn't taken long. Rumour had it that at this stage, his metabolism would slow in response to the reduced oxygen coming into his system. His lungs would relax, his mind would loosen up. He blinked to try to reduce the sting in his eyes. It didn't work, and he held them closed. He would be able to feel the bubbles escape anyway.
--Twenty-Four--
As Nick's muscles began to relax, hands clenched to the sides of the sink, his mind began to wander. He was sure, sure that it wasn't his fault. Things happen in life that are out of people's control. That's what life is: bigger than people. For all the effort in the world, Nick had been unable to taste success. These past months he had not even tasted it once, fleetingly, not even a rush of blood in anticipation of possible good news. It was rejection after rejection. Experience. Qualifications. Age. Even his fucking hair cut. None of it was good enough when he walked into, and swiftly out of, interview after interview.
--Twenty-Five--
He thought of his grandparents and their war stories. He thought of how his ancestors had died in the mud, screaming out the names of their loved ones, fighting for their country and their pride in a war which rocked the world. He thought of the hardships of rationing; the terror of waiting for a push; the sheer horror of watching the life drain from a friend's face. He compared this to his modern life of dull suits, computer-print-outs and LCD-screen glows. A shiver ran through him, turning his stomach in shame.
--Twenty-Six--Twenty-Eight--
But none of that was his fault. He couldn't be held to blame for a society with false values and misplaced priorities. He had been caught up in an age of apathy which he feared and despised. He'd never been taught how to fight. He'd never been introduced to taboos. He was simply what the world made of him.
--Twenty-Nine--
That didn't count for much though. Life had never been easier, and yet he was still burying his face in water, trying to force his mind to some state of clarity. He pushed deeper into the water, grinding his nose and lips against the bottom of the basin.
--Thirty-One--Thirty-Two--
His lungs had begun to ache now. He opened his eyes to stare at the brilliant white of the sink. The water stung. His nose screamed to be released, itching and straining for air.
--Thirty-Three--
His mind ran through the list of trivial tasks he had to do. He thought about his bills, his changes of address, his car tax and upcoming birthdays. He thought of national holidays of ambiguous meaning. He thought about finally filling the small hole in his window which made his room so cold at nights. He thought of the endless debate and squabbling of politics. He thought of all the noble and naive causes the world had adopted to help itself sleep at night. He shifted his feet as he thought about what it might be like, just once, to have a purpose in life.
--Thirty-Four--
He bit down the desire to push against the cold plastic bowl, clenching his teeth through locked lips. He had been told that panic normally overtook after around thirty-five bubbles. Clarity and calm wouldn't descend until forty. Reports beyond forty-five were mixed, but rarely encouraging.
--Thirty-Six--
His lungs tightened and tightened. He desperately wanted to inhale, to breathe in the water simply out of force of habit. Twenty-four years of reflex stacked up against him: every impulse he had told him to breathe in. Still only thirty-six. No more bubbles? He gripped the sink edge harder and squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe he should just blow out any more air he had left. He had to do something. Anything. His shoulders began to ache from their locked position. His ears hissed with a rush of blood. He pulse whispered to him to remember his needs.
--Thirty-Seven--
Red blotches swam around his eyes. Every muscle in his body was tense. He felt frozen in place, every sinew locked by invisible claws. His head felt thick and heavy. His thoughts drifted apart before they could form.
--Thirty-Nine--
He squeezed his eyes shut. He thought about his father, sitting in a chair somewhere slowly drinking himself to death. He thought about his mother, worrying about her only son and whether she had given him the support he needed. He thought about his flatmates, and whether they would wonder where he had gone.
--Forty-One--
He realised that he didn't have to breathe in.
--Forty-Two--
He could simply hold on, wait for the world to turn completely red. Wait for the fire in his lungs to consume him. A few more bubbles and it would all be over. The roar in his ears screamed that it couldn't be that simple. His eyelids ground together, his muscles straining. Red blotches thickened and slithered.
--Forty-Three--
He thought about his old dog, Archie, and playing fetch with a ball in the garden. The shapes in front of his eyes began to dance. Archie ran in front of him, punctured ball in his mouth. Fingers against the sink scratched weakly at that spot behind Archie's ears. Red blotches wagged happily.
--Forty-Four--
He thought of a girl called Lisa. She had been kind to him. Blotches smiled at him. His ears roared in gentle laughter as he sought the correct money, and dropped the coins over the till. He opened his eyes and, instead of the cold basin, saw two brown eyes glittering at him. A girl called Lisa. Maybe she was worth waiting for. Maybe she could redeem the shame. He thought of the last time he had seen her, on the long walk back from the shop to the street he knew she lived on. His pulse rang in his ears and became her cold footsteps. The water became a window as he stared at her from the bus. The cold touch of the sink became the lonely path she walked along. The prickling of his skin and the spots in his eyes felt like the rain on her pale skin. His knees ached with the effort of her walk. His feet burned from the hard floor, couldn't take another step.
--Forty-Five--
A girl called Lisa. What if she needed him? He could be no coward to her.
Time stood still a moment. His head lightened, a bubble stood poised at a nostril, ready to escape. Weight seemed to float off his legs, and his arms melted away. A girl called Lisa. He would follow her. Follow her home.
With a rush, he fell backward to the floor. He pushed away from the sink with arms which were heavy and stiff, running with fire. He head broke the surface quickly, violently spraying water across the mirror. The world went black for a moment as he fell backward: then crashed back in on him as he struck the floor. He lay on his back, a puddle forming around his head, and gazed up at the bare, bright lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. He breathed in great, gulping, violent breaths of air – and laughed.