Adam Moorad

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Dissolve

A tsunami comes in the middle of the night and carries me away. The water is cold and fills my lungs and ears. Salt stings my eyes. Spontaneously, they tear and I think about slicing onions in a poorly ventilated kitchen. I think about the smell and the juices from the onion sticking to my fingers. I cannot wash the smell from my hands. I think about my nose dissolving and running down my face. I think about living in a poorly ventilated kitchen. I think I cannot stay there. I think I have to get away. I think there are others things I should have done before the tsunami.

The water pulls me down. I think about my family and wonder if they are safe. My body is pressed against a rock. My teeth break. When the water lets me go I taste blood. The current pushes me away.

I spread my arms out and sweep them around. I touch something warm. I hear a voice. It’s a woman. She is making noises. When she feels me she doesn’t say anything. She looks scared in the riptide.

We’re pulled out to sea. It is quite and there are no other survivors. I hear her breathe. I’m reminded to breathe. I taste the taste of air. I hear a wave. I taste the wave. It smacks against another wave. I breathe. Mist sprays in my face. I taste the mist. It tastes like tsunami.

The water is cold, then warm. I feel numb. Things are floating beside me. Empty soda cans. Pages of newspaper. Plastic grocery bags. They brush against my skin and wrap around my feet. The woman holds my skin. I feel her body pruning. I think I’m dissolving.
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I’m buoyant. I coast on my back. I lean to the side and splash. I laugh. I spit out a tooth. The woman laughs, then shivers. I look down and see my feet. My toes poke out of the water.

I feel I’m in some kind of whirlpool. But the water is still and black. It spreads in a sheet around us. The tsunami is gone. The moon is out and the sky is blue. Airplanes graze above us. Side by side, we paddled with the current. Heads above the surface.

I look at the woman. She says, “Help.” She thinks she is floating away. I look at the horizon. The shore is far. I see skyscrapers in the distance. They are dark and foreboding. I open my mouth and breathe. The woman breathes. I hold her arm. She says, “Thank you.” There are objects floating beside us. Larger ones. Wooden boards and pieces driftwood. I try to climb on them but they cannot hold my weight. I hear a family of whales singing, swimming in the deep. I think about my family. I hear coughs and murmurs. The woman says, “What’s happening?” I cough. I keep coughing.
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Hours pass. The current carries us to random locations. We’re held by the waves. They wrap around us and squeeze. The water is deep, bottomless. The woman remains still. Her body locks up. Her eyes do not move. Her eyeballs are tranquil and unfocused. I tell her not to worry. She says there is no place to go. I close my eyes and conserve my energy. My muscles burn. I try to stop my brain from working. It aches. Icicles fill my veins. My bones dissolve into my flesh. My flesh dissolves into the sea.

I dream I’m drowning. Slowly, I begin to sink. My body is lifeless, peaceful. My arms drift above my head. I don’t know what I’m feeling. Everything decreases in size. Grey shafts of light surround me. I see the bottom. There are boulders and sunken ships, moving closer – cold, cavernous, and poorly ventilated. I shutter. I start to cry. My tears mix with the saltwater. I taste onions.
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I wake up. I’m not crying. My heart beat is slow and measured. My arms wrap around a buoy. There is a blinking red light. The metal is covered in rust. It is snowing. My hands stick to the metal. I pull them away. My fingers break from my knuckles. I watch the snow. I count the falling flakes. I lose count.

The woman says we can’t stay here. She says, “We have to get away.” She stares at me. Her hair is wet and tangled. Her arms tremble. My neck is stiff. My ribs begin to frost and crack. She says she’s we’re freezing to death.

I am quite. I look for the shore. The skyscrapers are gone. There is no light. No airplanes above us. I stare until my vision blurs. I see the woman. I can’t recognize her body. She looks like a mother. I hear water splashing against her face. She spits. I spit.

We sink. The ocean covers our faces. The water makes a cage around our Bodies. Bars of ice surround us. The air steams as we slip away. I wipe my face. Skin falls off my palms and liquefies. I feel for the bottom. There is nothing to touch but the woman. She says, “Sorry.” Bubbles of air stream from her mouth. I look at her and smile. She cries underwater. I wipe her tears. I have no fingers. She looks at me. She looks strange. I feel strange. I look up at the surface. Snow flakes fall and dissolve. I look down. My toes are gone. My arms float above my head. I cannot hear a thing. I feel numb. I go to sleep.

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Adam’s writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in 3 A.M. Magazine, Pear Noir, Storyglossia, and Thieves Jargon. He lives in Brooklyn and works in publishing. Find him here: http://adamadamadamadamadam.blogspot.com/