Stolas’ body felt heavy with an indescribable weight.
No matter how many words he discovered, no matter how much prose he studied, there was nothing in this realm’s existence that could explain the feeling. It was suffocating, pulling him down under strong tides. He’d been drowning for years yet still had to come back up and tread water, a circus act to deceive others into believing that he remained effortlessly above the surface.
It was a futile attempt at saving face.
Occasionally it was too difficult to manage even that. It was times like these that made everything feel impossible, like he was nearing the edge of the abyss and was only one tiny, little push away. The fish and crabs and mermaids down there all told him it’d be okay, that he could still enjoy his time beneath the water.
Look, they said, look at all the pretty, shiny things and friendly creatures.
But sometimes he was so far gone that even the best things found a way to become burdensome. What good were his riches and family when they were thrust upon him with no say? He loved his daughter, but on his worst days even she made his skin crawl.
That’s all great, he replied, but I’m still drowning here.
There was only so much he could do: medicate, numb, conceal. Even if someone found him worth the effort of rescuing, how could they help if he was already swept out to sea?
All he could hope for was to get washed back up on shore after it was all over — but heavy waters offered no guarantees.