The Same Deep Water by Lisa Swallow Read Free Book Online Page A

against the pressure of the water; I kick at the window but my bare feet do nothing.
    My screams are swallowed by the water, stealing my world and my life. Eleven years old is too young to die.
    I slam my hands on the window, the air bubbling from my nose to the glass as the water consumes the last of the air.
    Heaving a breath, I sit, heart skipping in my chest and I close my eyes again. I’m not dying. I’m not having a heart attack. I can breathe. The light at the side of my bed illuminates my room, and I ground myself by counting the photo frames on the top of my chest of drawers. For a few moments, I sit with my arms wrapped around my legs before I’m calm enough to lie down again. The lamp casts a shadow across the wall. I never sleep in the dark anymore.
    The thoughts are back to torture me, the nightly replay of the night my father killed everybody I loved begins again.

 
     
    Chapter Eight
     
     
    “Can I touch?”
    Erica doesn’t wait for a response, instead lightly running a finger across the shiny black ink against my pale skin. The tattoo healed and, a week later, somebody from my past sees.
    “When did you do that? Why didn’t you tell me you were getting a tattoo? This isn’t like you!” She streams out the words in shock.
    “It’s on my bucket list.”
    “You have a bucket list?”
    “Doesn’t everyone?”
    Erica sits on the sofa in my bright and airy lounge. “I have things I want to do, but not an actual list. You wrote them down?”
    “Yes. Don’t you have one?”
    “A vague one. Should’ve expected you’d be all organised. I bet you have deadlines for each one too.”
    I poke my tongue out. “Do you want me to take you for lunch or not?”
    “Yeah, to that coffee shop where the guy works you told me about. Mr Eyelashes.”
    “What a weird thing to call him.”
    “You mentioned his eyelashes! I mean, come on, that’s not the part of his body where length matters.”
    “Erica!”
    She grins. “Legs! He has to be taller than you! Whatever did you think I meant?”
    “Sure,” I mutter, “let me grab my bag.”
    Friends since high school, Erica’s candy bright attitude to the world smudges colour over my grey. I owe Erica for helping me through my teen years, growing up with grandparents after the loss of my family and a switch of towns and schools no doubt triggered the dark side of my mind. My friendship with Erica stopped the depression blacking me completely.
    Erica follows me into my bedroom. “How are the new meds going?” she asks.
    The box rests at the edge of my bedside table and I quickly push them into a drawer. “Better.”
    “You worry me. I wish I lived closer for when you needed me.”
    “I’m fine, Erica. The change in meds a few months back screwed with my head. I don’t have the thoughts anymore.”
    Erica has seen through my lies before and I’m thankful she wasn’t around at the time I met Guy. His daily texts and calls after the day I almost died prompted me to see my doctor, keep going with the medication, and hold me in a world I fought against.
    In the early days, the change in medication screwed with my ability to think, walking around in a leaden-limbed daze that took me away from the thoughts instead of dealing with them. Gradually, I moved from not seeing a future to the prodding by Guy to create one. Guy’s background presence stopped me turning back into the shadows; now I’ve allowed him to pull me into the bright future he’s being denied.
    “A bucket list is good though, tells me you’re thinking of the future.”
    Erica doesn’t know. Nobody knows apart from Guy and my psychiatrist. The day after I met Guy, I saw my psychiatrist and admitted to him that I had thoughts about harming myself. Guy texted to check up on me and I informed him I was being admitted to hospital. I debated whether to give Guy my number the night we met and there’s a deep-seated reason why I did. By doing so, I made myself accountable to Guy. The texts