Day 55:

Teeth at your neck, ripping, burning-

You wake up in a panic, scrabbling for his coat among your blankets, but it's not there. You grip the blanket next to you, heart slamming against your chest, before you remember where it is. You gave it back.

Because he didn't fight for you.

No, because he was a killer. And because he didn't care. And you never really knew him, and everything was just so he could escape, because he is a monster and never cared about you.

You shudder, hunching up in your bed, pulling the blankets up to you as you stretch to sit up, pillows at your back.

The small nightlight you keep in the corner of your room is the only light, the Bubble gently bobbing up and down in the vast sea around your ship.

You cough into your fist, shivering as fever chills run through you.

Your neck burns, the way it does sometimes, and you stretch your socked feet down to the carpet with a sigh. The balm for it is in your bathroom drawer.

The doctor calls it phantom pain. It's so much worse when you get nightmares.

Your neck burns and you grimace, throwing a hand to it and pulling the balm out of the drawer. You unscrew the lid with shaking fingers, dabbing some of the smooth cream on the little divots in your neck.

You move your hair away from the scar and flinch at the sight of yourself in the mirror, neck bare, the two, tiny punctures on your throat.

The monster saw you like that.

You never let people see the scar. But he had, and it had felt... okay.

You huff and push your hair, hesitantly brushing the strands back over the scar. Was it all just to manipulate you into letting him go? Was any of it real?

Your scar sparks with pain again, and you dab more ointment on it before shoving the container back into the drawer.

Your door will stay closed tonight. You comb back your hair with aching fingers, crawl back under the covers, and pray no monsters disrupt your dreams.

Day 56:

"Morning, Warden," the monster tries today, giving you a cautious smile. He walks towards the glass, hands in his pockets. "Are you feeling any better?"

Yes, the cold is starting to go away. No, I wake up with pain in my scar and an ache in my chest from all the words I can't tell you.

You bite your lip, staring resolutely at the conveyor belt as you lower his breakfast onto the smooth, off-black surface with shaking hands. Have there always been little white crumbs sticking to it?

You can hear the monster moving, but you can't look up, can't look him in the eye. Was it all just a lie?

It felt so real.

You wrap your arms around yourself and flick the switch over, marching back up the stairs.

Day 57:

"Y/N," he says when you bring him his coffee the next morning, pressing his hands to the glass, fingers leaving prints. "Y/N, listen to me. Please."

You pause, hands clenched at your sides. The whole world seems to shiver.

You should be leaving. You know that. You hear your heartbeat like a ticking clock in your throat.

"I can't-" he starts, and you turn to find him shaking his head. "I can't control myself when I'm in the monster, Y/N."

"But you chose to shift into it, didn't you? And you knew what it would do to those people." You say, turning your face back to the stairs and taking a deep breath. The air in the Bubble seems to vibrate with a sudden stuffiness, the weight of the water against the walls pressing in on them.

He says nothing, but you can hear his breathing, soft against the glass walls.

You comb your hair back with your fingers, exhaling a shaky breath. "That's what I thought."

"You think I'm a monster, Y/N?" he says, voice strained. He moves around, and you imagine he has his arms out, turning to face you. "Well, then, come back and say it to me. Tell me I'm a monster, Y/N. Tell me I can't be saved. Say it to my face."

Your jaw works, shaking so hard you feel the hair on your skin trembling. "No," you say, shaking your head.

You pull the bannister and climb all the way up the stairs.

Day 60:

This day has its own, unique feel: a navy-blue-tinted malaise.

"Did they tell you all about the barnacles?" Mary is saying to the group, holding up her manual. "I mean, it wasn't in the manual, so."

She flicks a strand of her hair out of her face like she doesn't care, but her expression wobbles.

"Don't worry," Deion says, turning to look at his webcam so she can see his eyes. "It won't be that bad. You just... go underwater for a bit, scrub them off, and come back up."

"I hate being underwater," she mutters, but she looks up at the webcam anyway.

"I know," he says, offering her a smile. "We can video call after you do it, if you like."

You, Aliyah, Jin, and Rob exchange a glance. You glance down at your keyboard as it flashes with new messages.

There is DEFINITELY something going on between them. -Aliyah

10 bucks says he asks her on a date after the assignment. -Jin

Shut up, you guys, I'm trying to hear this. -Rob

You stifle a giggle, looking up at the webcam. "Yeah," you contribute, causing both Mary and Deion to look up. "Afua only told me about this thing last night. We have the whole week, but we're spending, like, an hour down there."

You shudder. An hour. All alone in the cold, chilly, dark blue, far beneath the sun, silence broken only by haunted whale calls and the sound of the currents around you. Scrubbing barnacles.

Something about it seems ominous, terrifying. But you don't want to make Mary feel any worse, so you don't say any of that.

Deion and Mary pick up their conversation again, so absorbed in each other, and you feel a pang of something.

Today you decided to bring the monster all three of his meals- and coffee- at once, in the morning, so you don't have to keep going down.

The way he looked at you- like he'd just been shot- when you told him made you want to take the whole thing back. But after a while he just swallowed, looked down, and said, "Whatever you say, Warden."

It broke your heart to walk away, but what else was there to do? If you don't get away, you'll never get over that time you were friends. And if you allow yourself to keep daydreaming about it, you'll end up just like you were last time, bleeding and alone.

You don't realize how horrible you look until a message pings on your laptop.

You okay? You look awful, Y/N. - Aliyah

You look up to see yourself reflected in your little square in the video call. It lags enough, just slightly, just enough for you to see yourself, hands clasped in front of you, staring off into the distance.

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. How do you tell her about you and the monster? She'd think you were crazy. She warned you about him, after all.

You close the laptop. "I have to go," you tell everyone, forcing a smile and waving as you end the call.

The blank screen stares back at you, the sound of waves lapping against the Bubble's hull the only sound.

Aliyah will text you later. There's no doubt about that. But as long as your laptop is off, any texts will remain unseen.

You pull open the submarine door to the outside, and take a step out to the stairs above it, the square of sky you can see beyond them trickling down like silky afternoon sun through the waves. Above you, you hear the gentle crashing of the ocean waves. Shh. Shh.

Nothing bothers those waves, does it?

You put your foot to the first step, the metal clanging against the weight of your foot, wrapping your fingers around the metal bannister and pulling yourself up the stairs towards that little square of blue sky.

Your head bursts out onto the deck, the wind whooshing past your hair.

Saltwater sound envelops you as the fading purple sunset turns you into a wind-tossed silhouette, fingers of ocean breeze pulling at your hair, your clothes.

You slide down to the deck with a sigh, pulling your brown cloth bag over to your lap.

The file all but slides out onto your lap, shimmering paperclips holding print-outs of the pictures Afua sent you.

You sigh and hold the file up against the buffering wind that pushes at its manila edges. It would be so easy to let it go, let the wind carry it off into the depths.

The sunset is so beautiful tonight. The purple clouds trail around lovingly, as though painted by a Valentine's artist to enhance the hazy feel of the night and welcome in the February breezes swirling in this week. No one will hear you say it, of course.

He hasn't seen a sunset in almost two months now.

You stuff the folder back into the bag, and your fingers brush against the hard cardboard of your father's book.

You sigh, tilting your head back to lean against the guardrail on the side of the Bubble.

"I've failed you, Dad," you say out loud, words lost to the tossing ocean foam lapping against the boat. You pull his book out, staring at the blank white cover. "You just... didn't know. They're right. Some people just can't be saved."

The wind ruffles the pages, words echoing in your ears.

A wind blows past your ear, fingers of cold whispering to you, but what about the ones that can?

"But when we think they can, we open ourselves to be used. We leave ourselves open," you spit back to the waves, picking at the fraying wood of the deck. "Look at me."

You're not sure who you're talking to. The light is dying. There is nothing but sea for miles and miles, and it really hits you that you're alone out here.

"I really did try," you say, hands dropping with the book into your lap, staring listlessly down at it. "And it didn't work, Dad."

You wait for a response, but none comes, nothing but the lonely chatter of a far-off seabird and the ever-constant sound of the waves.

The sunset dies above you, fading into night.

Your call with Afua is soon.