Log 1:
I am seven years old. Obviously then, not now. How could I live to tell the tale, otherwise? You know what, let’s start again, shall we? Rewind, rewind, rewind, rewind.
I am seven years old. My family and I are spending winter break at an over-the-top, lavish resort on the isolated island of Barbados. I am sprightly. I am naive. I am not an individual yet. I am easily influenced and distracted by others. My cousin, Dakota, is my antithesis. She is the same
age but is somehow already brave, independent, and dominant. However, she is manipulative. Controlling. She tells me to swim with her and I obey. Why wouldn’t I join her? It was going to be playful, right? Her dad (my uncle, Ron) keeps vigil over us of course but was he truly watching? We decided to play Little Mermaid, an all-time favorite of mine. I was never Ariel, naturally, because that’s who she always played, and you know, “rules are rules”. This time, I
would play as I pleased. I would create my own game so I could choose my part without consequence. It would be on my terms. I couldn’t tell her though. She would deny my request if I asked. Instead, I swim away from her. I pretend I am another princess from far away, so there would be no stepping on toes. Or in this case, squishing tails. I breast stroke underwater until I catch a glimpse of the other side. I had just learned how to breaststroke last week, so one could say I was showing off a bit. I arrive. I am free to have my own castle here. My own kingdom. I twirl gracefully and rapidly around the deep end like a teacup at Disney World. I greet all of my imaginary subjects on the steps. Suddenly, I see violent ripples form along the water’s surface. I feel unsettled. It doesn’t seem natural. I decided to swim back towards the shallow end. I would
be safe there. I shouldn’t have been in the deep end in the first place. I swim faster than I ever have before (and that’s saying something because I’m slightly new to the swimming game), like a Minnow running from a lionfish. I feel a tug at my ankle. It grips me firmly and pulls me deeper underwater. I try to swim away from its hold but I am not fast enough. It drags my body until my lungs start to drown and the shallow end approaches. I pop my head up shortly for breath but I am submerged again. Dakota is pulling me. Not any current. Not any external force. How is she so strong? I must breathe. I must breathe. I must breathe. I am lifted up from below to a destination where I can finally stand. I pant wildly like a dog after a run. “I’M, THE PRINCESS!” Dakota screams. She takes her talon-like fingers and digs them into my chest. She drags her hands consistently down my body, similar to how she had dragged me underwater. I couldn’t breathe then and I couldn’t breathe now. I’m too frightened to breathe. She wouldn’t stop and she was taking her unadulterated time. I’m so shaken that I don’t even notice the blood oozing out of me. She doesn’t notice either, clearly. When she reaches the lining of my bathing suit bottoms she stops scratching. She is depleted like a business tycoon after a long day’s work.
She also pants. She had created a perfect line. No curves. Has she done this to anyone before? It was almost animalistic. This was her way of marking her territory. I breathe. My fear dissipates and I touch my newly emerging scar. I cry. Luckily, the blood on my chest and stomach has
dried. She didn’t take everything. I’m still here. I plug my nose and go back underwater to remove the tomato-paste-like material off my body. By the time I stood back up, Dakota was already gone. Uncle Ron wasn’t there either. I don’t think he was there to begin with.
I am seven years old. Obviously then, not now. How could I live to tell the tale, otherwise? You know what, let’s start again, shall we? Rewind, rewind, rewind, rewind.
I am seven years old. My family and I are spending winter break at an over-the-top, lavish resort on the isolated island of Barbados. I am sprightly. I am naive. I am not an individual yet. I am easily influenced and distracted by others. My cousin, Dakota, is my antithesis. She is the same
age but is somehow already brave, independent, and dominant. However, she is manipulative. Controlling. She tells me to swim with her and I obey. Why wouldn’t I join her? It was going to be playful, right? Her dad (my uncle, Ron) keeps vigil over us of course but was he truly watching? We decided to play Little Mermaid, an all-time favorite of mine. I was never Ariel, naturally, because that’s who she always played, and you know, “rules are rules”. This time, I
would play as I pleased. I would create my own game so I could choose my part without consequence. It would be on my terms. I couldn’t tell her though. She would deny my request if I asked. Instead, I swim away from her. I pretend I am another princess from far away, so there would be no stepping on toes. Or in this case, squishing tails. I breast stroke underwater until I catch a glimpse of the other side. I had just learned how to breaststroke last week, so one could say I was showing off a bit. I arrive. I am free to have my own castle here. My own kingdom. I twirl gracefully and rapidly around the deep end like a teacup at Disney World. I greet all of my imaginary subjects on the steps. Suddenly, I see violent ripples form along the water’s surface. I feel unsettled. It doesn’t seem natural. I decided to swim back towards the shallow end. I would
be safe there. I shouldn’t have been in the deep end in the first place. I swim faster than I ever have before (and that’s saying something because I’m slightly new to the swimming game), like a Minnow running from a lionfish. I feel a tug at my ankle. It grips me firmly and pulls me deeper underwater. I try to swim away from its hold but I am not fast enough. It drags my body until my lungs start to drown and the shallow end approaches. I pop my head up shortly for breath but I am submerged again. Dakota is pulling me. Not any current. Not any external force. How is she so strong? I must breathe. I must breathe. I must breathe. I am lifted up from below to a destination where I can finally stand. I pant wildly like a dog after a run. “I’M, THE PRINCESS!” Dakota screams. She takes her talon-like fingers and digs them into my chest. She drags her hands consistently down my body, similar to how she had dragged me underwater. I couldn’t breathe then and I couldn’t breathe now. I’m too frightened to breathe. She wouldn’t stop and she was taking her unadulterated time. I’m so shaken that I don’t even notice the blood oozing out of me. She doesn’t notice either, clearly. When she reaches the lining of my bathing suit bottoms she stops scratching. She is depleted like a business tycoon after a long day’s work.
She also pants. She had created a perfect line. No curves. Has she done this to anyone before? It was almost animalistic. This was her way of marking her territory. I breathe. My fear dissipates and I touch my newly emerging scar. I cry. Luckily, the blood on my chest and stomach has
dried. She didn’t take everything. I’m still here. I plug my nose and go back underwater to remove the tomato-paste-like material off my body. By the time I stood back up, Dakota was already gone. Uncle Ron wasn’t there either. I don’t think he was there to begin with.