Blue Water is the story of a young woman, diagnosed with schizophrenia, who has been plagued with hallucinations her whole life. Told from her point of view, she tells the reader of the little girl in purple pajamas she’s come to know as "Carrot" who she believes is trying to tell her something important. As she’s finally beginning to make strides to improve her life, does she burn everything down, stop taking her medication, and follow Carrot into madness?
I’ve been here before.
The old room is dark, but I know where I am. I know what the room looks like in the light. It’s cold tonight; I always remember it being warmer.
The clock seems louder than usual too, almost as if I can feel every tick wash over me from behind. The old grandfather with a mocha finish watches over the room. The glass panel on the front is cracked, a single shard missing from the top left of the pane. A piece of masking tape covers the glass around the edge of the hole, a temporary attempt to make it safer.
I can’t see it in the dark, but I know exactly what it looks like.
A radio plays some beautiful classical music from behind me. I couldn’t name the piece, I’ve never been in to classical music. For the life of me, I have no idea why it’s playing.
I’m sitting comfortably alone in an oversized elegant looking antique chair. The fabric is an olive green felt. The chair itself smells like it’s sat in a grandmother’s house for decades, but it’s worn in all the right spots to make it feel like it was made for me. The floor under my feet is covered by a red and black shag carpet, worn on all the common foot paths. I know all the details of this old house. The dirty windows, the china cabinet with less china than is necessary for a cabinet, the scratched rock on the mantle over the fireplace that has never been lit. I remember it all, but I can’t remember how. Every time I’ve been here it’s been dark.
The body lies on the floor to my right. I’ve always assumed it was a woman because of the pastel blue nightgown and the long fingernails with the remnants of a red nail polish, long ago applied, but never cared for. She’s old too; the blue varicose veins crawling up the outside of her legs like a parasite just under the surface of her skin are enough to guess she’s over seventy. I couldn’t tell from her face, because all that’s left above her shoulders is a blood soaked carpet, cracked skull, and the inside of her head spilled outside, like an egg dropped on the kitchen floor. Whoever she is, she didn’t die well.
I’m sad that she’s dead, no matter how right it feels.
And here’s the weirdest part: the beautiful music, the comfortable chair, the rhythmic pounding of the clock, the corpse; I feel at peace. I feel like I could be on vacation. As soon as I notice how good it feels I can feel my relaxed heart beat start to awaken. I can hear my breathing. My mouth is drying out.
All of this is happening because I know what’s coming.
Outside the house is nothing. I know that. This is all there is. The air in here is all that’s left, and it’s stale. It hasn’t been breathed since the last time I was here. I wonder if on one of these visits it will run out. I doubt it, I think to myself. This always goes the same.
My heartbeat begins pounding harder and harder, and now the sound waves from my chest have overpowered the clock. I can hear it in my ears, along with the music and the clock, both seemingly louder than before. Now I want to leave. I...