It is alright.

There is enough air here. They would not let me in, float in here, if they were not sure there was enough air. I put my head back in the liquid, trying not to focus on the small -

Something tightened my throat though.

It is not real. It is because I lied on the consent form. I am simply claustrophobic. I take a deep breath, but not enough air is coming in. But if I strain my eyes in the darkness, I will see the lip of the lid and my body will know there is air. I harbour another breath, trying to slow -

Something just brushed the skin on my throat.

Itch, just an itch. I hear the pulse of my blood rushing through my body. I feel it in my stomach, shaking my intestines. And then I hear another heartbeat. I move in the liquid, until I reach the smooth wall. My fingers try to find the lip of the lid, but the surface is

Something brushed against my skin again.

It is not real. I shut my eyes tightly, feeling them watering now, burning. I slide the forehead against the wall, pushing, kicking into space. The deep, the breaths I am taking are -

Something brushed against my leg.

I open my eyes, but the black changes shades. Something slides into the view, the mosaic of all the things I have seen, in the form of my grandfather. I have not met him. I have not -
But the collage of my mother’s eyes leaves no doubts. The mosaic speaks in gurgles and clicks. I move, float.
Nothing but -
Touch. Arm.

Tense. Lip for escape. Clicks behind.

Asking.
Did I kill the kaleidoscope pouring. Throat. Into.

Crunched ribs.
Let me out! I do not consent!

No air. Growls. Beat.

No lip.