My mother’s drunken words cut me deep.
But, are they true?
The darkness of the center beckoned to me. Picking the lock, I slid into the pool and sunk below the surface. Within the water’s embrace, the voices of my demons dimmed. I sliced through the silkiness of the depths and the burn of countless laps dulled the pain.
The following night, the guard nodded as I slid through the door. Over time, others joined. Betty who lost her husband. Joey who fights for sobriety. Now, the night-time lanes are full.
No-one speaks. That’s not what we are there for.
This piece is my contribution to “Friday Fictioneers,” a weekly challenge hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff Fields. With the help of a photo prompt to inspire, we are to write a 100-word story. This week’s photo was contributed by our host, Rochelle. If you would like to join in with this encouraging group of writers or read their stories from this week, visit HERE