Pool Room 1

Pool room seems to be the literal concept of the space: a large pool stretches the entire expanse of the area. Only a small sliver of blue tile lining the front, and back half of the room interrupts the water. She slips inside, keeping her back pressed to the wall as she navigates the narrow ledge. There is enough leeway that she isn’t in imminent danger of sliding into the water, but the floor is slick with residual moisture, and her shoe skitters precariously over the floor. Her fingers dig into the raised bumps of the concrete wall, scrapping over the sharp peaks as she tries to hold herself steady.

She eases her way to the corner, fitting herself into the sunken indent where the two walls meet as best as she can. It isn't comfortable, but it's secure, or as secure as this set up will allow. She tilts her head back slowly, stretching as she tries to relax the tight muscles at the base of her skull. Her head meets the concrete with a dull thud, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make her aware. Present.

From her new vantage, she takes in the rest of the space. The ceiling is higher in this room, spanning ten feet if not more. Small windows dot the perimeter, snug against the roof, far removed from anyone who may hold any notions of scaling the walls to utilize them. Moonlight streams in from above, painting the water’s surface in speckled light. It would be a tranquil sight if she wasn’t so deeply unsettled. Even still, the gentle motion of the pool combined with the persistent balminess of the air, lulls her. Envelops her in a serenity that she knows is too good to be true.

She brings her chin down, looking into the depths of the water. The surface is rippled glass, a transparent turquoise that would almost feel tropical if not for the pervading scent of chemicals. Her eyes grow heavy watching the ebb and flow, and her thoughts start to drift, taking her to places she hasn't touched in decades.

Swimming was one of her favourite pastimes as a child. She loved the cool break of water against her skin, the weightlessness that made her body feel hollow, the chlorine that clung to her no matter how many times she washed. Born to the sea; her mother would often quip, hands sitting on her hips, face open with fondness, as she watched her swim. Hours she would spend in the water. All day, if she could get away with it, leaving only once her fingers became shriveled, and even then, reluctantly.

She felt free in the water; unmoored from the mundane shackles of her life. Released from the more intentional restraints. Pools, lakes, the sea -any body of water was a sanctuary, a reprieve, right up until they weren’t. 

Everything changed when she started to change. When youth ran its course, stretching as far as it could before the inevitable break. The first hints of adulthood seeped through the fractures -far too soon and far too fast for her liking- surfacing insidiously through the cracks. She was still young when her body started to shift, fill out in a clumsy mockery of womanhood, making convex what was once smooth. Her chrysalis formed over night, an abrupt transformation, and broke with the rising of the sun. At ten she woke up, took one look in the mirror and saw a stranger with breasts and hips staring back at her.

She had been devastated. Haunted by that image seared into her brain, that funhouse reflection showing her features no child should have. It was mortifying. Unwanted.

The first time she slipped into her swimsuit after her metamorphosis, the nylon stretch sitting suddenly too tight over these new valleys, she knew the water would never be the same. She would never be the same.

That’s when she started to notice him noticing her. Started to feel the weight of his eyes on her -his vile, violating gaze that followed each dip greedily, loitering hungrily on every new addition to her. She often wished that time hadn’t been so cruel, that she could have remained in the softness of youth, cradled in sexless, shapeless innocence. It was a vain wish. 

After eyes turned to hands, she never set foot in the water again.

Liquid lands on her cheek, pulling her from the uncomfortable recollection. A large ripple spreads across the surface of the pool, distorting the mottled light further as it dissipates. She looks beyond the disturbance, down into the depths until she spots the faint wink of metal at the bottom. She knows it must be another key, another taunting challenge thrown at her feet. The objective is clear: retrieve it.

She looks across the expanse of water to the far side of the room. Sure enough, a door sits at the other end, waiting. She doesn’t let herself think, doesn’t allow trepidation to have any time to anchor her, before she’s raising her arms, taking a deep breath, and diving headfirst into the pool.

Warmth surrounds her -a surprising sensation- as she plunges into the water. The temperature is tepid, closer to a lukewarm bath than a traditional pool. She brings her arms down, kicking her legs instinctively to propel herself forward. But the feel is all wrong; fluidity has been superseded by viscosity, the texture closer to molasses than water. The resistance is like swimming against a strong current, a salmon fighting to make it upstream.

She’s always been a strong swimmer, but decades of avoiding the sport have softened her muscles. Stripped her of the power she once possessed. She no longer feels born of the sea, no longer melts into the shape of the water. Her arms pump regardless, clawing through the liquid as she pulls her way down, down, down. Whatever finesse she lacks, her drive to succeed more than makes up for.

She forces her eyes open, ignoring the chemical burn that accompanies the action. The white tiles at the bottom shimmer, their squares growing larger as she fights her way to the base. It doesn't take her long to spot the key. It sits oddly still, unshift with the movement of the water -a small miracle- almost as if its been affixed. The idea that the key has been held down isn't a pleasant thing to contemplate, not when she is already struggling to reach the bottom, and she forces the thought from her mind. She keeps her sight locked onto the key, her singular focus shrinking the rest of the room down into that sole point. She stretches her free hand out, fingers straining towards the metal, air running precariously low. She pumps her legs hard until she’s close enough to get a grip, her fingers skittering over the smooth tile as she collects the key.

She turns her body quickly, planting her feet against the bottom as she prepares to propel herself to the surface. Her lungs ache with a tight fisted agony. She needs air now. She kicks off, but her momentum is forcible halted by something cold wrapping around her ankle.