The tightness of the membranes around me is increasing, and
the urge in the muscles around my chest to move, expand, grows. Nobody has come
to cut me free. This is – unexpected. People should know that I am returning:
the guardians are faithful in that duty, at least, and would have told my
friends or, if I was short on friends for any reason, my gang leader.
My chest is calling for air; the waters I breathe taste
stale and foul.
I tame my body to patience and calm. They will come, I tell
myself. They have a duty.
Nobody comes.
My chest grates for the balm of air.
I open my eyes and look beyond the membranes. Beneath me, the
floor of the healing pool is unhelpful – sand and smooth pebbles.
My body begins to panic. Spasms push my limbs against their
constrictions. My lips make way for teeth as they try to lunge at the tough
wrappings, but enough elastic remains within them to defeat my tearing efforts
– all I manage to achieve through my struggles is to roll my line of sight away
from the floor of the pool to its side ...
... where sharp rocks intrude into the water.
My eyes register the sight and my mind acts on it before I am
aware of what I am doing. My struggles become frantic, yet ordered – each
thrust brings me closer to the sharp protrusion. I lose sight of my natural
knife before I feel it press against me, digging into my thigh. The sensation
triggers a series of more violent jerks to bang my legs against the point of
rock: again, and again, and again, and ... it rips! Immediately I stretch,
unfurl my length with every last sinew, forcing the tear to lengthen, widen.
My chest hammers for air.
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