"Distorted" by Eve S. Evans

Distorted 

by Eve S. Evans

I toss down my poker chips, my hand trembling slightly, trying to focus. My cheeks flush from the alcohol, but my stomach feels hollow. I probably should have had that burrito at the airport.  Oh well, too late now.

My mind is too messed up to play games right now.  I know my friends have the best intentions.  They’re just trying to help distract me, but I can’t forget the way I caught him—my boyfriend, Damon—lip-locked with someone else, just yesterday. 

The betrayal is burned in my chest, raw and fresh. My friends had dragged me here, trying to lift my spirits, trying to make me forget. They said a trip to the beach would help, that the ocean’s vastness would swallow the pain. But right now, all I feel is the chaos inside me—shattered, spilling over.

I shove back from the table, voice thick and unsteady. “Gotta get some air,” I mutter. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t get lost out there,” Linda teases, grinning, eyes glassy. “You aren’t the best with directions.”

I wave her off, ignoring her jab at my lack of directional skills, stumbling toward the door, heart pounding. My mind is a mess and I need to clear it—thoughts of Damon, of her, of everything I thought I knew, crashing like waves inside my skull. 

Outside, the cool night air slaps my face—sharp, salty, relentless. 

The moon hangs low, sickly pale, casting a pallid glow over the shoreline. The beach stretches out before me like a wound, dark and silent except for the gentle roar of the waves.

I pause, blinking, trying to steady myself. My head spins worse, and I feel like I might fall. The alcohol dulls the pain a little, but it’s not enough. I need to be somewhere else—somewhere quiet. 

I stumble toward the water’s edge, where the tide has retreated, revealing black pools of glass that shimmer with an unnatural, sickly glow. I crouch beside one, staring into its depths, searching for something—anything—that might distract me from the ache in my chest.

My reflection stares back—distorted, flickering like a broken film. I see the ghost of my smile, the tears I cried earlier, my eyes red and swollen. But then, something shifts.

The water ripples, slow and deliberate. The reflection twists—her mouth pulling into a sick grin, eyes sinking into darkness, like a bottomless pit. 

My heart pounds harder. 

I blink, trying to dismiss it. It’s just water.  Just the alcohol messing with my head.

But the grin widens. The eyes deepen, black as ink, staring back with malevolent hunger.

This isn't just water, I think, panic rising. It’s something else.

A whisper rises from the pool—soft at first, like a breeze slipping through a crack in a door. Then it grows, layered and layered, echoing inside my mind.

"You belong here," it hisses, cold and rasping. "Stay with us."

I stagger back, clutching my head. “No,” I whisper fiercely, trembling. “No, that’s just—just the drinks talking. Just my head—”

But the reflection’s grin stretches wider, teeth jagged and black. 

The water beneath pulses, rippling faster now, like a living thing waking up.

“No one leaves the beach,” it snarls, voice dark and deadly. “Never.”

The wind picks up, howling through the night, whipping my hair into my face. The tide surges—black, oily, ravenous—and reaches toward me with long, shadowy tendrils. I feel them—cold as ice, slick and slimy—clinging to my ankles, slithering up my calves.

“Get off—!” I scream, kicking wildly, trying to break free. But the darkness grips me tight. The tendrils drag me forward, pulling me into the pool, into the cold abyss.

“No—!” I choke, voice cracking as my body is yanked beneath the surface.

Beneath the water.

It’s cold—so cold—and weightless and helpless. My limbs flail, desperate, as icy water floods my nose, my mouth. I see her—the reflection—only she’s wrong. 

Her eyes hollow, her skin stretched tight, lips pulled into a sick grin that makes my stomach turn.

Dark shapes drift in the depths—faces twisted in agony, eyes burning with hate. They reach out with skeletal hands, mouths open in silent screams. I try to scream, but my voice is swallowed whole. My heart pounds so loud I think it might burst.

“No one leaves,” the voices echo, layers upon layers of despair—endless and relentless. Drowned women, men—lost souls, all swirling around me, mocking, taunting.

I claw at the water, desperate to break free. But I sink deeper, deeper, into the black, sucking nothingness. My mind teeters on the edge of madness—my heartbreak, my betrayal—blurring with this nightmare.

Then, suddenly, I’m free.

I gasp—lungs burning, stomach heaving—sitting upright in the wet sand, my skin clammy and cold. My clothes cling to me, soaked through. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the fog from my mind. My eyes dart around, searching for clarity, but the images refuse to fade.

Behind me, the tide pool still shimmers with that sickly, unnatural light. 

I turn my head, trembling, and see it—her face staring back at me.

The reflection.

Wrong. So wrong.

Her eyes are hollow, skin stretched too tight, lips pulled into that sick grin. The grin widens further, revealing jagged, black teeth. She leans closer—closer—and hisses.

"No one leaves the beach."

My stomach twists into knots. My heart pounds so hard I think it might explode. I try to back away, stumbling over the wet sand, but I can’t move fast enough. The grin grows wider, cruel and mocking.

I stand there, frozen, my breath ragged. Which way should I run? 

The chaos inside me—the heartbreak, the betrayal—flares into pure primal fear. The water ripples again, violently, like a beast awakening. 

I realize—I am no longer on land. 

I am drowning in its domain.

And I will never leave.