Memento Vivere

Gray stretches across the entire sky as I wonder why this fish-woman refuses to murder me.

A wave crashes against our stone, a spray of mist raining down on us as her exasperated breaths fan across my face. Her fingers curl against the loose grit tumbling around either side of my face, scratching. 

“Please keep singing,” I croak out, reaching for her pale face. “It sounded beautiful.” My arm falls onto jagged edges before my fingers can graze her cheek, which is covered in aquamarine scales. My flesh could’ve been dragging over a piece of broken glass right now, and I still wouldn’t have enough energy to lift it back up.

Trembles rack her body. A small stream of tears shimmer along her lash line. “You’re begging me to kill you.” One of her tears lands on my cheek with a plop. "I don't understand."

Squinting, I push myself onto my elbows, frozen and bewildered at the accusation. It wasn't that she was wrong, but hearing that out loud felt like swallowing a handful of salt. Let alone from someone like her. 

“I never said that," I retort, tremors lacing my voice. "All I said was I wanted to hear more of your voice.”

Wasn’t this supposed to be her job, anyway? She's the one who dragged me here in the first place, looming over with her willowy form, blood-stained fangs glinting in the light and ready to puncture. That was the fate of all sailors: to die at sea, one way or another. So, why? Why did she hesitate?

A sigh leaves her, forming a plume of fog against the cool air. She sits before me on our drenched boulder, her sage tail trailing into black waters. Her head droops as she traces the cracks and veins in the basalt. The air settles into silence, broken only by the occasional caw of a seagull, or the rhythmic curl of a wave against the slab.

With a small click of her tongue, she reaches behind and heaves something over to her side. My bag. It’s been unlatched. She fishes through the contents until she finally pulls out a thick, leather book. “I’ve been looking through your things,” she hums. “I needed to know if you are truly worth a cruel death.”

Her fingers drift along the familiar, yellowed pages until stopping on one in particular.

All about Sirens.

She flips the book toward me, littered with dramatically vicious sketches of creatures like her and descriptions of how to survive their deadly prowess. “You knew what I was, and you’re still asking for this.” Her lip trembles. “Why?”

“I’d prefer a quick death over abandonment, I guess.” I glance at the tatters of my slacks, drenched and clinging to my legs. “My crew bailed on me. I got too emotional over the small stuff or something dumb like that,” I clarify, shoulders shaking in a half-hearted laugh. “Didn’t take risks and didn’t join in on their stupidity enough.” A swallow burns down my throat. “But it's not like I can go back now. Not to home, not to them, clearly. So, might as well."

My eyes flit across hers. Across those deep, black pools. I clear my throat, and gesture to the bag, marked with pins of my favorite bands and shows, a small fish keychain dangling from one of the zippers. “You can have that, by the way,” I tell her.

“You’ve been abandoned,” she muses. “And now you no longer wish to live?” The book lowers in her grasp, her eyes distant now. “Oh.”

I give an awkward nod, and fling my hand up in the air. “So, um…now that you know, you wanna get on with the whole sing-and-kill routine already or?”

Pursing her lips, she scoots closer. 

Her voice breathes color into the wind. It’s gorgeous, but it’s uneven. She presses a slender hand to my shoulder to pin me beneath her, but I still don’t think she realizes how that isn’t necessary. Either way, this isn’t a horrible way to go. 

Her lips dive for my neck, her inky hair a soft series of slaps against the rock. 

I expect sharp canines. I expect a blur in my vision. I expect a searing white-hot pain from the juncture of my throat and collarbone.

I expect the end.

My mind blanks. My muscles tense. My hands roll back into fists.

What I don’t expect, however, is a kiss.

She pulls away gently. Quietly. She shakes now, and I know it’s not due to the cold. “Your disregard for life is frightening.” Her gaze meets mine again. “Especially because you really don’t seem so terrible. So cruel like some of the other men I’ve captured. You simply seem…sad. And that’s only a passing feeling, right? We are supposed to hunt all and any prey we see, but I refuse to kill on the premise of a death wish. Such a tragic feeling shouldn't be met with more tragedy.”

My heart rages beneath my pulse. Somehow I feel more panicked now than I did at the hands of death itself. “What?”

“Besides,” she goes on, her tone a little wistful now. Her fingers glide underneath the pins and keychain on my bag. “These little items appear very dear to you. Or maybe they did, at some point.” Shaking her head, she drops her hand. “It’s difficult for me to believe you wish to die so deeply that you’re willing to forfeit all the passions you’ve entrusted to such a strange sack as this one. And to me, better yet!”

My brows scrunch together, a confused smile breaking out onto my face. I remember the day I decorated that bag: It was the same day I bought it. The fish was mainly meant to be a little something to remind me of home while I was out at sea. My crew teased me relentlessly about how kiddish it was, though they said it wasn’t surprising for somebody like me. Never really understood what that was supposed to mean, but oh well.

The sight of an alleged myth-no-longer nudging my bag towards me pulled me back. I blink hard, and lift my chin away apprehensively. 

She doesn’t move. Only blinks back at me. So this time, I cross my arms as a show of intimidation to see if she’s really as innocent as she’s making herself out to be. 

Our staring contest passes in silence for a minute or so before she tilts her head, eyebrows knitting, and asks, “What are you doing?” 

 Another minute goes by, and to nobody’s surprise, I’m the first one to forfeit. A large sigh leaves my lungs.

  “You’re so…weird,” I finally say. 

The corners of her lips twitch downward. “Not true. Why am I being blamed for not being aware that staring is such a popular human custom? You’re the weird one,” she claims, jerking her face away. “Or maybe you’re just rude,” she mumbles. 

When I don’t respond—because frankly, I have no idea how to form coherent words at this point—heat swirls in her cheeks. She tucks a strand of hair behind her thin, three-pronged ear. “I’m weird?” she questions, much more shy this time.

An unexpected chuckle bubbles out of me. “Yeah, you’re really weird. Sirens are supposed to be scary, you know. Not like…therapeutic”

“Therapeutic?”

“Yeah, therapeutic.” My fingers curl around the strap of my bag as I tug it over my lap. “It’s a word you use when you want to describe something or someone who makes you feel better.”

“Am I…” Timidly, she points a finger at herself. “making you feel better?”

“I don’t know how or why, but somehow,” I suppress another grin, shaking my head. “you actually are.”

It’s not until then that I realize how tightly I’d been clutching that fish chain. Maybe you won’t be lost to trenches after all, little guy. Though, with the way this girl’s acting, I can’t even say I won’t end up tranced and growing gills by the end of the day. And boy, is there a whole lot of day left. 

Damn sirens.