03-18-2026, 12:54 PM
Child, there had been no chance.
Child, you were doomed from the start.
He knows this in the way his mother had turned from him, how he had trembled, how easy it had been for his father to coax him away from the water’s edge. How he had stumbled, tripped over his own feet as he had turned his head to watch his mother and his sister disappear in the distance. How his father had said nothing to him at all as they’d walked except to say, ‘it’s not far now’. Deeper and deeper into the forest they’d gone until, finally, they had come to a pond, deep black where the sun could not reach the water.
And his father had gone quietly into the water and the boy had understood that he should follow, that he should not ever question his father.
And then?
He had slipped soundlessly beneath the surface of the water, tugged under by some force he could not see, hungry tendrils of something curling around his limbs, his belly. And he had tried to scream, call to his father for help, but he’d opened his mouth and the water had flowed in. Into his belly, into his lungs.
And then?
He had awoken on the pond’s loamy bank, his father gone.
Something had changed, that much was obvious. Because, try as he might, he could not shake the algae from his hair. Because, no matter how far he walked from the edge of the pond, still he dripped water. Because, though he drew breath, he could tell it made no difference.
He returns to the river where he had last seen his mother, his sister. But they are gone. In their place, there stands something vaguely reptilian.
He has no way of knowing how much time has passed since his father led him to the water. He cannot know that his father had left him there beneath the surface for nearly a year before he’d finally dredged him up. “Hey,” he calls, “have you seen my mother?”
Child, you were doomed from the start.
He knows this in the way his mother had turned from him, how he had trembled, how easy it had been for his father to coax him away from the water’s edge. How he had stumbled, tripped over his own feet as he had turned his head to watch his mother and his sister disappear in the distance. How his father had said nothing to him at all as they’d walked except to say, ‘it’s not far now’. Deeper and deeper into the forest they’d gone until, finally, they had come to a pond, deep black where the sun could not reach the water.
And his father had gone quietly into the water and the boy had understood that he should follow, that he should not ever question his father.
And then?
He had slipped soundlessly beneath the surface of the water, tugged under by some force he could not see, hungry tendrils of something curling around his limbs, his belly. And he had tried to scream, call to his father for help, but he’d opened his mouth and the water had flowed in. Into his belly, into his lungs.
And then?
He had awoken on the pond’s loamy bank, his father gone.
Something had changed, that much was obvious. Because, try as he might, he could not shake the algae from his hair. Because, no matter how far he walked from the edge of the pond, still he dripped water. Because, though he drew breath, he could tell it made no difference.
He returns to the river where he had last seen his mother, his sister. But they are gone. In their place, there stands something vaguely reptilian.
He has no way of knowing how much time has passed since his father led him to the water. He cannot know that his father had left him there beneath the surface for nearly a year before he’d finally dredged him up. “Hey,” he calls, “have you seen my mother?”
- SON
@starbo