Submerged 2

I can see the whole room from where I'm standing. Subdued pop music plays from hidden speakers as people mill about, talking and laughing and socializing. All while I watch from my little corner, back against the wall. I wish I could join them but it's just as difficult now as it was in high school. Maybe harder. I can barely look anyone in the eye.

The cup I'm holding in my right hand feels warm against the very center of my palm so I know that means it's probably burning myself. I move it to my left hand, holding it by the handle when I feel the heat radiating away from it.

My right palm is bright red. I close it and tsk at myself for letting it go that long. As usual, I can barely feel my nails against my hand. All three of them. I can't help but frown as I open my hand, staring at the stump of my ring finger and the ugly scarring that runs from the base of it to my elbow in an arching, erratic spiral - a fleshy crimson lightning strike that I keep hidden behind long sleeves.

"Darla," my friend says warmly in front of me

I hide my hand behind my back out of habit and take a sip of my cider, wincing as it burns my tongue.

"How is everything?" she asks, standing close but not too close. I can see the concern in her eyes. "Not too much to handle, I hope?"

"No," I tell her, blowing at my cider so I don't have to look up at her. A lock of my black hair shifts and nearly dips into my cup until I brush it away. "It's okay for now."

Cynthia, my friend, is the only one that hasn't given up on me over the years. I fight a constant battle of wishing she would just walk away while also privately clinging to the care she's shown.

"I know it took a lot to come," she tells me, glancing to the side and waving when someone calls for her. "I'm just really happy you showed up. There's plenty of food and alcohol and-"

"Go do your thing," I tell her when someone else calls her name. Another sip of the drink and another painful, internal curse. "I'm fine, really."

It's a lie, of course. I'm not. But I smile the best I can as she walks away with a backwards glance. I feel crushed and it's hard to breathe, like the world is closing in on me. Growing brighter and louder and

heavier

until it's too much to bear.

Looking over for Cynthia, I accidentally catch the eye of a man standing beside her. Short with a straight brown beard that looks like it's been oiled. He grins at me and breaks away as if to come over.

That's my cue.

I reach to put my glass down but it's a wooden end table and there aren't any coasters. Who doesn't have coasters for a party? Cynthia, apparently.

Oh god, he's coming closer.

The coffee table in front of me also doesn't have coasters and is also wood.

My heart is pounding. I can almost feel him breathing down my neck.

At the center of the coffee table is a flat ceramic dish containing a small flower pot and a fake rose. I hurriedly lay my cup down inside the dish with a whispered 'sorry' to nobody in particular. And then I leave, looking back toward my friend to see if she's noticed.

The man realizes I'm leaving and he's stopped in the middle of the room, watching me with a frown. Cynthia is talking with more of her friends, her hand against her mouth as she laughs at something but I see her glance my way as I go for the door. She looks sad for a moment but nods her head in understanding before turning back to the people around her.

Snowflakes whirl around me as the sudden, sharp burst of cold steals my breath away. Ducking my head, I suddenly wish I'd brought a scarf as the wind finds every gap in my too-thin coat. I turn up my collar and walk briskly past the line of cars parked next to the narrow sidewalk.

My feet crunch in the snow and I'm already feeling my ears burn as I shove my hands deeper in my pockets.

I hate that I couldn't stay. Cynthia's shown nothing but understanding throughout the years and she's such a good friend but it's too much. All I can see are the jeering acne-marked faces and the sly looks of girls who knew they were better than me when I stepped into class in the middle of the junior year of highschool.

It's not that I could blame them. My family lived away from the small town and we were recluses. My momma taught me herself until she'd suddenly passed, leaving my father with six children and no idea what to do. So, he'd sent me to school.

My right hand clenches when I remember the first time someone noticed it. An oversized boy had held me down to pull my sleeve back and they'd clustered around like I was some circus freak. Which was what they'd often call me. One girl threw up in the corner when she saw my arm.

Father hadn't told me to be wary of them and he'd been too tired to notice the tears in my eyes when I'd come home. And I'd had to help around the farm so I didn't have the time or energy to try to tell him.

The whole time I'd tried to tell myself that it wasn't my fault. I couldn't even remember when it happened. The incident. I just woke up in the house, in pain with my momma screaming and my father holding me down. Blood everywhere.

There was an old piece of machinery in our barn, gas powered with a massive belt and I'd gotten too close to it, apparently. Tore my finger off and degloved my hand. They rushed me to the hospital with my older brother staying behind to watch my siblings. I remember his face was as white as the snow falling around me now. And my brothers and sisters wailing. But I don't remember the pain. Not at first.

The next week I was in and out of awareness and when I finally came to, I was less. Less a finger with a massive scar that I had to rub lotion into so it wouldn't stiffen.

Even

I

was horrified by it so I wasn't surprised at the other kids. Just ashamed. So I kept to myself. And I learned that it was an extremely hard habit to break over the years. Although, I think it's graduated beyond a habit at this point.

A faulty sign buzzes and flickers and I look up by reflex. A pale, calming blue light outlines a business titled, simply, "Floating Therapy." It was a large building - far bigger than the narrow ones neighboring it in the boutique neighborhood. In the window to the left of the door is a poster of a woman floating with her eyes closed and a subtitle of "Restricted Environmental Stimulation Technique" followed by bullet points espousing the benefits.

Sensory deprivation. I've heard of it before and it sounded intriguing. Alone. Floating. No people threatening your space. No sounds or images. Just silence.

Maybe- maybe I could try it. Cynthia wants me to see a therapist but maybe this would be a good first step.

Snowflakes melting on my neck remind me that I'm standing in a flurry and I hurry on, clicking my keyfob until a car in front of me beeps quietly, muffled by the snow surrounding us. I try to shake off my coat before I slip inside and carefully back out to rush home to my bed, safely away from crowds and people.

---

No doorbell chimes when I open the door to the Floating Therapy business. It moves smoothly and closes quietly behind me as I stomp my feet on the rug at the entrance.

The lobby has recessed blue lights with white paint and it's quiet. There's no reception desk but, instead, a white curved leather couch with a glass coffee table and three white chairs facing the couch. It's all oddly soothing.

A side door opens and an olive skinned man appears, smiling when he notices me.

"Ah, Darla, yes?" he asks, his voice precise and warm and surprisingly deep.

He's dressed in khakis with a white short-sleeve Polo shirt and brown penny loafers. I can't guess his age but there are small wrinkles beside his eyes and the corner of his lips. He doesn't reach for a handshake.

"I'm so glad you could make it today," he tells me, his eyes watching my face. He's taller than me - not a difficult feat - but he's relaxed with his arms to his side. His wavy hair is short and well maintained. I think I can spot a few gray hairs at his temples but then I look down. "The weather is terrible for my business and I'm always happy to have a new client. Such an exceedingly rare event."

"Thank you for making time for me," I tell him.

"Nonsense!" he says with a soft laugh. "You're my client, of course I'll make time. Would you like to sit? I'll go over the process. But, briefly so we don't waste your time."

I sit at the edge of the couch and he takes a chair, facing me across the glass table. He leans forward slightly with his hands clasped and I can see a large metal watch on his wrist. His forearm is thick with black hairs.

"I take it this is your first time?" he asks.

"Yes," I say.

"Good, good," he nods. "It's simple, really. I'll lead you to your room where you'll be allowed to change into a bathing suit in privacy."

He pronounces 'privacy' with the 'i' like igloo. Pr-i-vuh-cy rather than pr-eye-vah-cy but otherwise has no accent I can discern.

"There's a small button on the wall," he continues. "You can press it when you're ready and I'll come in to assist. There's a large, well, capsule in the room that you'll step into. I'll close the hatch behind you when you're settled. You'll be immersed in darkness and utter silence, floating on your back with your head above the water. I keep the temperature at exactly body temperature so you won't even know you're floating."

He waits for me to say something but I just nod.

"And that it's it," he concludes. "The time is yours. When your thirty minutes are over, a small red light will pulse and I'll come to open the hatch. Do you have any questions?"

Yes.

"No," I tell him, shaking my head.

"That's fine," he says, smiling in encouragement. "Shall we?"

I follow him down the hall, stopping at the first door on the left as he opens it and waves me in. The capsule is a tank that dominates the room. It's not aesthetically pleasing, all flat panels like an armored bug with a large round hatch in front of a set of steps. He leaves the room without a word and I set my bag down, locking the door before I strip.

The floor is cold but the room is warm and I dance from foot to foot as I fold my clothes to lay them on a bench set against the wall. I can't help but glance at the door, despite the lock and I feel guilty for doing it.

Finally, I step into my bikini - a one piece as I've never worked the nerve up to try a two piece. It's snug over my ass and tight against my overly large breasts but it's the only one I own. I bought it especially for this visit.

On the wall above the steps is a metal button. I press it and then hold onto the metal handles around the hatch, steadying myself before stepping into the tank. The water is as warm as he promised and I pull myself in, turning to lie on my back.

I don't hear the owner - Charles, I think he'd said over the phone this morning - enter the room but his soft voice calls out from beyond the tank.

"Now," he says. "I want you to reach straight up. Do you feel the button there? Good. If you find yourself uncomfortable once the hatch closes, push it and I'll come straight away. Otherwise, beside the button is the light that will flash when the time is up."

The light from beyond the hatch dims as he closes it and I'm left alone in utter darkness.

There's a rushing in my ears - tinnitus from working around heavy machinery on the farm and my heartbeat sounds incredibly loud. But, as I close my eyes and float, it fades away.

I don't quite sleep but I feel so incredibly relaxed that I fall into a kind of trance. Memories surge, desperately trying to fill the void but I push them, focusing on clearing my mind. It's a struggle but it works.

I am nothing.

I am nothing and it's the most satisfying feeling in the world. In this moment, I am nobody and the world around me doesn't exist.

My hair floats behind my head and my arms are at my side but I can't feel them. It's as if I've shrunken down to a small-

The red light blinks and I'm startled by it. It couldn't possibly have been thirty minutes but I hear a metallic clunk and the hatch opens.

"There's a fresh towel on the bench with your clothes," he tells me. "I'll wait for you in the lobby but, please, take your time."

Waiting a few minutes to be sure he's left, I exit the tank, grabbing the rim of the hatch and then the handles to ease out. The floor seems even colder than before so I rush to the thick mat I'd missed earlier, just in front of the bench. I unzip myself and peel the swimsuit off, shivering as it brushes against my nipples. They're erect now in the cooler air, after being submerged in the warm water. Dark and thick, surrounded by tan areola.

The towel is fluffy and luxurious but, as I pat myself dry, it irritates my skin. As if the soft fibers were grating against my body. Dressing is quick but, again, my bluejeans and loose top scratch against me.

Dried, dead skin flakes away with each movement and the towel is covered with it when I fold it and lay it down on the bench. The skin left behind on my body is smoother and more pale.

As I step into the lobby, Charles stands and smiles.

"So?" he asks, curious. "Was it everything you hoped it would be?"

It was, honestly. And more. I don't know if it will help me with my social anxiety but the peace and calm I felt were incredible.

"Yes," I tell him shyly, scratching at my side, just beneath the swell of my breast. More skin flakes away, falling in slow patterns like the snow outside. "I'd like to come back soon. Maybe tomorrow? In the evening after work?"

"I believe that would work," he agrees. "Perhaps 5 pm?"

"Oh, yes," I say, smiling and looking him in the eye for the first time. "That would be perfect."

---

After my time in the water, I took care of shopping before returning home. It's already quiet for a Sunday evening and the snow is keeping nearly everyone home. Just the way I like it.

The painful itch from my clothing has settled into uncomfortable background noise as I rush from my garage and into my small house. I sigh happily once inside as the heater surrounds me with warm air.

It's out of character for me but, after checking that the curtains are drawn, I unzip and step out of my jeans. The relief is immediate, despite the goosebumps that rise along my legs.

I scratch at my legs while I put away groceries and the darker skin sloughs off painfully. Without noticing, as I bend to put food into the bottom shelf of the fridge, I play with the smooth flesh beneath. My touch sends a tiny, exciting thrill along my spine.

My shirt shifts against my body, slowly pulling tighter to outline my breasts. The skin covering my spine is stretching as the bones extend, scraping and creeping into a bulge from the nape of my neck to my sacrum, nestled between the generous curves of my hips.

I reach back to scratch my spine and almost purr in the satisfaction it gives. The skin moves against my fingers and I reach as high as I can - between my shoulder blades and then down to just above my ass, straining to the tips of my toes. It feels

incredible

and I'm surprised when I stop and realize I'm wet.

Wet and aroused, my body seemingly begs to be touched and caressed and scratched.

Beneath my shirt, the bulge lengthens a fraction of an inch more and then stops, leaving me with the beginning of my caudal fin. All I know is my shirt is too tight and rough against my body and my bra is straining due to the new growth.

With another glance around the room, I pull my shirt off and then reach behind to undo the double claps for my bra. Finally, I wriggle out of my panties and dump all three items in my hamper. My thighs are slick against the smooth pale skin lining my inner thighs.

It's such a rare and exciting feeling. I've not had much luck dating. I can't seem to bring myself to try and, like the bearded man from the night before, I push away people if they get too close. There was rarely private time on the farm with my siblings and the work needing done and, well, it never seemed to be a priority.

Now it was deep inside of me, crying out for attention and my awareness was heightened to a new level. Every shift of the micro currents in my house seemed to be a new touch from a gifted lover. It would be a shame to waste the moment, as fleeting as they seemed to be.

I glance at my bedroom but then looked toward my bathroom instead. Would it be the same?

As I walked to the bathroom, the tiny black hairs dotting my arms and legs detached, some floating away behind me while others lay flattened and useless.

I sat on the edge of the tub as it slowly filled with warm water. I checked periodically but I couldn't stop touching myself in between. Just caressing my body over and over until the tub was full.

Unable to wait any longer, I lowered myself in, laying my head against the back of the tub while submerging myself, breathing out until my fin settled against the bottom of the tub. It didn't compare to the tank but I still lost myself in it, surrounded by the pressure of the water as if it were a full body embrace.

My hand crept down my stomach, brushing through black pubic hair that waved in the water like small black seaweed. My touch pulled the loosened hairs free to leave my mound perfectly smooth.

As I floated back to the top of the water, my fingers played with my pussy lips, toying with myself by sliding a finger against my opening. Raising it higher to rub the hood of my clit with a sharp gasp. I thrust my chest out, splashing water as I played with myself.

Beneath the water, my pussy lips began to pull back, the wrinkled flesh growing smooth as they retreated. Bones moved glacially beneath my mound and my labia, engorged with blood due to my arousal, slowly began to come together until they formed a perfect slit with my lips hidden beneath.

I pushed a finger into my reformed pussy and my other hand reached for my breast, moaning at the double sensation. My labia separated slightly to allow my finger inside.

A quiet, lustful mewling sound escaped my lips as I worked the finger in and out, bending and straightening my toes beneath the water while massaging my own breast. I jerked when it became too intense but then slowed, playing with my slit.

My breast overflowed my small hand but it shifted in my grasp as fatty tissue melted away. Once again my hand sped up and I pressed my legs together, gasping with each stroke while bouncing my ass back against the tub. Waves formed, crashing against my chest as my breasts continued to shrink, sliding through my fingers until I could almost cup one in one hand.

It was rising in me and my hand began jerking erratically as I shoved myself against my hand, gasping and moaning, my now-small breasts quivering against me beneath the water. Closer and closer and closer-

"Oh!" I shout, my mouth opening and closing. My muscles clench against my finger and I pull out, rubbing my soft, thick labia as I shake from a surprising orgasm. My feet twist together and my breath goes out in a ragged sigh as I lean my head back and laugh quietly. It's such a sweet feeling and I wonder why I don't do it more often. Wrapped up in the endorphins and riding the still-gnawing arousal, all I can think about is

more.

I want to stay in forever but I'm starting to feel cold. So, instead, I stand slowly, pushing myself up on the sides of the tub to stand on still-shaking legs.

Beneath me, unnoticed, the tub is full of small hairs and dead skin.

I step out of the bathtub and remove the stopper to let the water drain while grabbing a towel. Once again I have to pat myself dry as rubbing is painful.

When I'm done, I grab my phone to browse a few websites while I brush my teeth. The phone refuses to unlock with my fingerprint. After trying twice more and receiving a warning about the phone locking me out, I key in my PIN with perfectly smooth fingertips that show no whorl of a fingerprint.