Watery grave

"Christine?"

Elaine's voice seemed to echo through the room. It was hard to see even with her standing next to her, by the bed, but Chris could almost make out her features. They were blurring somehow, like being seen through rippling water.

She dips her head back and goes under the water. I'm so thirsty. Why am I so thirsty?

Chris stays under the water. It feels good against her skin. Quenching. It was almost enough to make up for the thirst in her mouth. Her hair fans out and floats in the bathwater. I'm losing my hair.

It's dark in the bathroom but she can still make out the tiled walls and white ceiling. A figure appears, standing by the side of the bath. Still underwater she moves and tries to hide.

It's man, not someone she knows. Even through the dark linen cloth covering the top of the bath she can tell that. Maybe he is familiar, the words he's saying are.

Amplius lava me ab iniquitáte mea et a peccáto meo munda me. He sprinkles water on the cloth and she can feel it on her face. Chris reaches up to touch the damp cloth, her hands wet from the water, and she wonders why she's having a Catholic funeral.

Bound

She rolls from her side to her back. Sleeping on her side is uncomfortable now with her new...appendages. Flat, muscled appendages on each side. Fins.

Chris buries her face in her pillow. No. I'm just not thinking about it.

Sleeping on her stomach isn't much better. It's hell on her lower back. She tries to shift but finds that she can't move her legs, at least, not apart. Still tired, still wanting to sleep, she moves a few more times but her legs feel as if they're almost bound together. When she tries to move them apart it's almost a pinching sensation through both legs.

Frustrated now, she turns over and sits up in bed. She takes off the covers and doesn't understand what she sees.

There's a light grayish-blue tissue binding her legs. It's thin, she can make out the shape of her two legs underneath but it's strong. She runs her hands across it and it's smooth, like most membrane surfaces.

It's my skin.

She rebels against the idea but runs her nails across her thigh sharply. It itches and even stings in some parts where she drew blood.

No, no, no, no... Something between a strangled scream and a growl rips through her throat. ( She claws at her legs and all it does is rip the skin but the binding remains. )