If Christians are correct, baptism is a symbol of murder—or suicide, I guess. So here's a very vivid, strange word picture of baptism as the death it really is—the death of an old way of living—written from the perpective of the aspect of human life that is supposed to "die." To the personified "sin" that's supposed to go under, the act itself must seem like torture. Get ready. I never write fiction, but this hit me squarely in the face the other night. And I have no idea what to do with something that sounds so morbid. Not really my usual.
He tugs hard at my hair, the nape of my neck stinging in protest. His grasp feels rough and edges me—overpowered—closer to the water. Feet scuttle to brace against tile, but traction fails and all they can do is slide against his strength. My body, whipped forward, slams again basin; white knuckles—signs of my own struggle—grip its galvanized rim. It's cold, like death.
Sinew shaking, my wickedness writhing, he pulls me in. My body slumps submerged, but my face—it just won't go under, crying out for the last semblance of control. Water creeps up stringy strands of hair already sunk, my head bowed in a turgor pressure of tension that crescendos through my skull as a shriek. My face hovers so close to the surface that a ripple bobs and weaves around the tip of my nose, its concentric clones wriggling wildly as sound wave slaps against the tiny tidal wave of this baptismal font.
He waits, grip unchanged. Throat constricting, my despair dissipates in its last aching arcs, then silence, except for a panting breath. Those heavy, heaving sighs kick watery craters across my reflection, the last I'll see of that face. We lock eyes with finality, myself and I.
I recognize resignation and let go.
Like the slow-moving motion of a grenade pin falling softly against earth, a backdrop of weightlessness before a bomb bursts, I'm engulfed in the small, simple sound of slipping beneath the surface—like a stone after its skipped its last sine.
I gulp and feel it fill my lungs—anvils—drawing me to the depths. And in my watery grave, my limbs relax, finally free of futility. Buoyed by...nothing. There's nowhere to go but to hell.
Ideally, once heavily refined (there's not enough variation in sentence rhythm as is, relying too heavily on aliteration), this short would have three extremely short "parts"—The Drowning, The Dredging, The [Repetition? TBD]—but I've only made it so far as the first. The second installment (Dredging) would be the rebirth and realization that baptism was never forced in the first place. The third (Repetition?), that it's a daily death, not once-and-done. Comments, critique, suggestions very welcome.
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