The Wicked Deep

by Shea Ernshaw

They were among the first to settle in the newly founded coastal town, and they strode onto the new land like thin-legged birds with wavy caramel hair and pastel skin.

A morning fog, somber and damp, slides over the surface of the ocean between Lumiere Island and the town of Sparrow.

Beneath me lies a web of barnacle-crusted metal, links of rusted chain trailing over broken bows, and fish making their homes in rotted portholes, the rigging long since eaten away by the salty water. It’s a graveyard of ships.

Bo shakes his head and then finishes his beer in one gulp. “And people actually come to watch this happen?” “Morbid tourism, we call it. And it usually turns into a witch hunt, locals and tourists all trying to figure out which three girls in town are inhabited by a Swan sister—trying to determine who is responsible for the killing.”

He is not someone who looks through you, past you, like you’re not even there. His gaze is sharp, incisive, and an itch settles behind my eyes, making me want to look away.

He looks away from me, like he’s considering heading for the door and leaving. Saying good night and vanishing into the storm. And although I’m curious exactly what kind of accident, I don’t press it any further. I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want him to leave, even though our conversation feels tightened along the edges, tugged and constrained because he’s holding things in. I’m also not quite ready for this night to be over. There are things I like about him—no, that’s not right. It’s not him exactly. It’s me. I like how I feel standing beside him. Eased by his presence. The steady buzz along my thoughts, the ache in my chest tamped down. Softened.

“There’re always reasons to stay,” he says. “You just need to find one reason to leave.”

But how do you let yourself unravel in front of someone, knowing your armor is the only thing keeping you safe?

My fingers tremble slightly; my heart pushes against my ribs, warning me not to tell him the truth. But the truth tastes like letting go, like the sharpness of sunlight on a spring day, and my head begins to pulse with every heartbeat.

Love is an enchantress—devious and wild. It sneaks up behind you, soft and gentle and quiet, just before it slits your throat.

I once read a poem about love being fragile, as thin as glass and easily broken. But that is not the kind of love that survives in a place like this. It must be hardy and enduring. It must have grit.

I might love him. And it has tilted my universe off center, the frayed edges of my life starting to unravel. Loving someone is dangerous. It gives you something to lose.