Free Dead River by Cyn Balog

I have no idea what lies at the very end. I don’t think I’ll find out. I know that before I reach the end, I’ll be dead.
    My lungs are beating against my chest, exploding. My heart thuds in my ears. I look up, toward the ripples of sunlight. They’re just a blur now, because I’m moving too fast. I need to get there. Somehow. I reach my hand out, but instead of propelling myself upward, all I do is bring back a handful of soft, mucky stuff, like a tangled mane of hair. Like my mother’s hair. I make another attempt to scramble upward but I find myself just sinking deeper, andthe lights above begin to fade with the burning sensation in my lungs.
    The last thing that enters my mind is that it’s funny how we try so hard not to be like our parents, because that never works out. I’m going to die here, in a river. Just like her.

Chapter Eight
    F irst there are the whispers.
    I did …
    What the …
    That’s the …
    I keep still, listening, but the words never come together to make sense. They’re just words, as if read from a dictionary, phrases that never mean anything. The morning’s biting cold stings my cheeks. I’m still wearing that impossibly uncomfortable wet suit, but instead of being near-frozen, I’m sweating underneath the layers of wool clothes. I open my eyes, and all I see is the gray, sad sky and black, bare branches above me. A large crow glides overhead, cawing ominously.
    I’m alive. Amazingly. I must be. If I were dead, my head wouldn’t hurt as much, would it?
    I sit up. As I do, my head throbs, begging me to rest, but I push against gravity and straighten. When I’m erect, my hair whips over my eyes. I pull it back, but it’s slimy in places, gritty in others, and knotted like seaweed. Where is my helmet?
    The whispering continues, which is odd because I’m alone. But then it changes somehow—was it not whispering but the sound of rushing water? I look around. Water moving everywhere, all around me. No, no, not more water! I want to retch at the sight of it. When I swallow, there’s something thick and gritty in the back of my throat. The water laps at my toes, almost as if it’s trying to touch them, to grab me and pull me back toward it. I’m sitting on a small island right in the middle of the river.
    I scan the horizon for cheerful yellow rafts. When we set off, there were dozens. Now I can’t see a one. I search the riverbanks to either side of me, but the only witnesses to my peril are tall pines, bowing to me in the stiff wind. I curl my knees up to my chest and hug them. Where the hell is everyone?
    I crane my neck to scan the island, but it’s just brambles, moist sand, pieces of driftwood that have found their way here on the waves. One lone, bare tree with sprawling branches and a trunk the size of a small car sits behind me. It takes up most of the real estate on the island. Other than that, nothing. My backpack is gone. There’s a draft on my back now and I tenderly bring my fingers there, running them over the neoprene. Great. There are slashes all down my wet suit, almost as if I’ve been mauled by a bear. I probe around with my finger and find blood. My hand is covered in blood. I turn around and there’s a small puddle of it under my backside. Suddenly I’m aware of the sting.
    Frantic, I search the river again. Nothing. No one. I’malone, in the middle of the rapids, bleeding. No. This is not good. My heart begins to pound so hard, I can almost hear it.
    “Well, look who’s wandering among the living.”
    I jump at the voice. Not that it’s scary—it’s just that two minutes ago, when I surveyed my surroundings, I was alone. Or at least I thought I was. The tree, though, has a large trunk, so maybe he was behind it. Yes, of course. Plus, my head hurts, so maybe I have a concussion and am not seeing things clearly. I turn, and a boy is loping toward me, easy, like he hasn’t a care in the world. His light brown hair is falling in his face and he has