How to Become a Mermaid
By Jackie Hutchins
I stood by the water and pressed my foot onto the shells, trying to cut into the flesh and take the sea into my veins. Don’t go into the water like that, they told me. My mother would grab my arms to keep me from jumping into the water when I got in one of my moods, as we called them, where I would scream because I wanted to be a mermaid, part of the water. Like just then, I ran at the water, and she caught my arm and I screamed and went limp and then tried again for the surf.
At school they told us to follow our dreams, and this was mine. Anything is possible. Do you believe in magic? Visualize the outcome. And here my own mother laughed at me as I cried and she looked to my aunt for help, and I wanted to go cry to my mom but here she was grabbing my arm. Pick another dream. You can’t breathe underwater. What will you do when this doesn’t work out? But I could already win competitions, holding my breath as chlorine-green split ends floated out in silence until my shoulder was tapped victorious. I already knew the water.
Sink down, holding the sides of the pool so you don't float up. Close your eyes as you feel yourself dissolve into the water. You are completely surrounded and supported by this fluid; you are the water, or you are the fish; the water and the fish are your lungs and blood.
I took a garden rock later, when everyone was at our house, and threw it at the back door window. I missed, but my mother saw, and locked me out.
Fine then, I decided, I'll go to the beach.
The beach I liked to visit was a bike-ride away, a little inlet from the sea with few waves, cold water, and rocks. There was a park there, too, where I used to swing, full of daydreams where I played the hero.
I run into the water with all my clothes on. No one is around, so I guess I could've stripped, but it’s November, and cold out. I can almost feel my veins constrict as the water takes my breath away. I dip under and close my eyes.
Feel yourself dissolve into the water. You are the water; you are the fish; the water and the fish are your lungs and blood.
As my scalp is numb and my eyes are closed I have no idea where my hair is. I imagine it waving out blonde from my head.
One minute under the water.
I know my hands and lips are blue, or would be in the sunlight. But now I am in the dark cold, alone, with no one to look at them. My chest kicks but I just focus on dissolving into the water.
Two minutes under the water.
You are completely surrounded and supported by this fluid. Generally I can hold my breath for two minutes, give or take a few seconds. My mind is still calm; I know today is the day I set a new record.
Two and a half minutes.
My chest bucks again. I open my mouth a little to further dissolve, to surrender more of myself to the icy crystals that are piercing me. Or rather, that were piercing me. I can't really feel them anymore. My body submerges another few inches. Today I will be a mermaid.
Three minutes under the water.
Something amazing has happened. The sun slides into the water in refracted shafts. The water is clearer than it usually is. In the distance I hear the whale song, and I understand.
It sings of crushing depths and human dangers. It laughs at smaller whales that do not see in the darkness of the ocean. There's a note that vibrates on the emptiness of the shark's eye. This whale sings of krill and deep ocean currents. It calls me out to the deep sea.
It warns of dangers in the sea, but I tell the whale I know these dangers, for I was once human and feared the ocean. I tell him this with my blood, which I feel streaming warm out all my pores, turning blue and green and clear and joining the sea. I tell him this on the screams of pain shooting out from my closed eyelids.
Four minutes.
Sink down, holding the sides of the world so it won't float up. Close your eyes as you let yourself disappear. You are completely surrounded and weathered by this fluid; your blood's only rain, on an ocean of fish.
- - -
Jackie Hutchins recently graduated from Connecticut College and is now living in Jacksonville, Florida, and missing autumn. Her work has appeared on textsfromlastnight.com, but this is her first bit of fiction.
By Jackie Hutchins
I stood by the water and pressed my foot onto the shells, trying to cut into the flesh and take the sea into my veins. Don’t go into the water like that, they told me. My mother would grab my arms to keep me from jumping into the water when I got in one of my moods, as we called them, where I would scream because I wanted to be a mermaid, part of the water. Like just then, I ran at the water, and she caught my arm and I screamed and went limp and then tried again for the surf.
At school they told us to follow our dreams, and this was mine. Anything is possible. Do you believe in magic? Visualize the outcome. And here my own mother laughed at me as I cried and she looked to my aunt for help, and I wanted to go cry to my mom but here she was grabbing my arm. Pick another dream. You can’t breathe underwater. What will you do when this doesn’t work out? But I could already win competitions, holding my breath as chlorine-green split ends floated out in silence until my shoulder was tapped victorious. I already knew the water.
Sink down, holding the sides of the pool so you don't float up. Close your eyes as you feel yourself dissolve into the water. You are completely surrounded and supported by this fluid; you are the water, or you are the fish; the water and the fish are your lungs and blood.
I took a garden rock later, when everyone was at our house, and threw it at the back door window. I missed, but my mother saw, and locked me out.
Fine then, I decided, I'll go to the beach.
The beach I liked to visit was a bike-ride away, a little inlet from the sea with few waves, cold water, and rocks. There was a park there, too, where I used to swing, full of daydreams where I played the hero.
I run into the water with all my clothes on. No one is around, so I guess I could've stripped, but it’s November, and cold out. I can almost feel my veins constrict as the water takes my breath away. I dip under and close my eyes.
Feel yourself dissolve into the water. You are the water; you are the fish; the water and the fish are your lungs and blood.
As my scalp is numb and my eyes are closed I have no idea where my hair is. I imagine it waving out blonde from my head.
One minute under the water.
I know my hands and lips are blue, or would be in the sunlight. But now I am in the dark cold, alone, with no one to look at them. My chest kicks but I just focus on dissolving into the water.
Two minutes under the water.
You are completely surrounded and supported by this fluid. Generally I can hold my breath for two minutes, give or take a few seconds. My mind is still calm; I know today is the day I set a new record.
Two and a half minutes.
My chest bucks again. I open my mouth a little to further dissolve, to surrender more of myself to the icy crystals that are piercing me. Or rather, that were piercing me. I can't really feel them anymore. My body submerges another few inches. Today I will be a mermaid.
Three minutes under the water.
Something amazing has happened. The sun slides into the water in refracted shafts. The water is clearer than it usually is. In the distance I hear the whale song, and I understand.
It sings of crushing depths and human dangers. It laughs at smaller whales that do not see in the darkness of the ocean. There's a note that vibrates on the emptiness of the shark's eye. This whale sings of krill and deep ocean currents. It calls me out to the deep sea.
It warns of dangers in the sea, but I tell the whale I know these dangers, for I was once human and feared the ocean. I tell him this with my blood, which I feel streaming warm out all my pores, turning blue and green and clear and joining the sea. I tell him this on the screams of pain shooting out from my closed eyelids.
Four minutes.
Sink down, holding the sides of the world so it won't float up. Close your eyes as you let yourself disappear. You are completely surrounded and weathered by this fluid; your blood's only rain, on an ocean of fish.
- - -
Jackie Hutchins recently graduated from Connecticut College and is now living in Jacksonville, Florida, and missing autumn. Her work has appeared on textsfromlastnight.com, but this is her first bit of fiction.
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