“It’s not what you think.”
The voice is faint, barely a whisper over the breeze. It sounds strangely warbled, as if listening to a phone conversation over a particularly poor connection. My pulse quickens as I am struck with the distinct sensation of being not alone, of someone else’s presence sharing space with mine. Imagine sitting in an empty room, completely engrossed in a good novel. It’s the feeling you get when, for no reason at all, the hairs on your neck begin to prickle, and you realize that someone has been standing in the doorway for quite some time now, watching as you read. I stiffen, and carefully open one eye.
“It’s not what you think,” the voice repeats. The voice is tinged with sorrow and resignation. Out of my peripheral vision, I notice a dark silhouette partially obscured by the shoulder-high hedge, a slightly darker shadow against the deepening gloom. I focus on the silhouette, and the accompanying voice abruptly sharpens, taking on an almost urgent edge.
“I dreamt of drowning last night, you know. Just sinking into the depths and never coming back up. I knew I should have been terrified, but I wasn’t. A lot of people think that drowning is a pleasant way to die. That you just float away and never come back. But it isn’t like that, not at all. It’s more like… holding your breath while walking past a cemetery, but there’s no end in sight. You want to take a breath, but you’re afraid of sucking in some poor wandering spirit if you do. So you just keep holding your breath until your hands start shaking and your face turns blue. And eventually, despite your best efforts, you gasp for a breath of refreshing, cool air. Only now someone’s got their hands over your mouth and nose, and a pressure’s building up against your eyes and ears, and you struggle against your captor but there’s nothing to flail against, and all you’re left with is the overwhelming urge to breathe. Now imagine all of this happening while you’re gently floating in the darkness.
“There’s a sense of futility in it all, a sense of your body betraying you, forcing you to take that last killing breath. I should have been afraid. I should have been struggling for my life. I didn’t. I didn’t because you were there. Maybe you’ve always been there, and I just never noticed. It’s like I somehow knew you would be there to save me.” The speaker’s voice cracks, and I notice a subtle shift in the silhouette.
“But you didn’t, did you,” the voice whispers. “You let me go.”
The breeze suddenly strengthens, and I can barely make out the rest of the speaker’s tale.
“I guess all I’m trying to say is… Don’t let me float away, not yet. Please. Stay here with me, for a little while longer. I…”
“I…”
“…”
Foppotee is a word... 