Over the past two years after Dad left, without a speck of doubt, I've realised that my mind travels elsewhere. She wanders away without my heavy bones. I guess it's because I've gained so much weight that she's left me behind and flies solo—free from the constraints of a body that does nothing right anymore.

It gets scary sometimes. Whenever I'm riding my whirlwind—that's how I call this thing that happens to me anyway—I lose focus and recollection of what I've done. It's as if I go to sleep, but my body stays behind, performing all the involuntary functions needed to stay alive—like blinking.

Blink. I'm here. I'm awake.

Blink. There it is, the sour tang of my grief. It makes my stomach hurt.

Blank. No more fear. No more monsters telling me I'm fat and alone.

The problem lies in waking up to a moment I don't want to be a part of. Like this moment, for example.

Blink. I'm walking into a class brimming with judgmental stares.

Blank. Everything fades and I don't have a care in the world around me anymore.

Blink. I'm back—can't tell how long I've been gone. A teacher is asking me to recite a poem I know like the back of my hand. A poem that takes me to the deep ends of my worst scenario. A haunted place where my dad is dead, and I carry his voice in my bones, echoing in me...

Why Sylvia Plath? Why a poem by this girl who tried to slice her throat at ten because her daddy was as dead as mine? I get why she wanted to leave. Tired of being alone and scared. Exhausted from the weight of a thousand questions left unanswered. I get why she thought she had a chance to go back to him. Lured by the memory of the warmth of his embrace. She did, at thirty. Will I want to go too?

My gaze wanders to the curtainless classroom window as I think of her but try not to think of her. I've traced and retraced Sylvia's life in my head. I've googled her, and I know the name of her mother, Aurelia. Her two children, Frieda and Nicholas—who barely knew their mom. I think of Tommy and Bree, who barely knew Dad...

So, I recite it. For the girl who flirted with death using a sharp blade. For me, this ferny girl, who wishes her transformation was complete, so she'd grow again, with her dad's ashes strengthening her roots.

For us both, barely able to breathe or hold steady every time a new wave of grief threatens to pull us under. Maybe I should listen to the tide. Let it carry me away. I know you did. Is it better where you are, Sylvia? Is it?

I carry on, stanza after stanza. Loud and steady. For our dead dads. Yours called Otto, who taught biology with a focus on apiology—the study of bees. For mine, Frank, who loved them and called me baby bee. What are the odds? And in that infinite, molecular moment, I'm grateful for my tiny secret. I thank my involuntary processes that keep me breathing, blinking and listening to his voice.

"Hey, baby bee. I've always loved how you recite poetry." He comes to me, summoned by my need.

Hush now, Dad. I'm trying to remember the words.

I know he won't mind waiting for our next conversation. He chuckles and fades away, and the poem ends.

The snake girl from the lake regurgitates acid over my recitation. She mentions cookies because I'm fat.

Blink. There's this restlessness in my sharded bones.

Blink. It's safer to disappear.

Blank. Silence is deafening too.

"Shut up, Lorna!" The tall boy from the same den comes to my aid. Is this happening? Why would he care about the chubby nerd that recited a sappy poem about water? But he did. He shushed his viperine friend and now all eyes are on him.

The bell rings, and I need to leave the class because he stands up looking like he wants to reach out to me. I don't need to be rescued. It's too late for that now. What I do need is to leave. Search for water and sink into its arms. So I do. Grabbing my poetry book, along with the rest of my crap, I dart to the door.

My new leaves expand, feeding on my Professor's praise. They unroll a tight spiral, watered by her kindness. However, unable to withstand this storm off they go, leaving my thin, ferny arms. On the floor they land, trampled by dirty, thoughtless soles. They are no longer green. They can never be. They do not do. I weep a tear for them on my way out.

Blink. Run faster, ferny girl.

Blink. Don't let them squash your roots.

Blink. Water is what you need. Seek it. Let it fall over your tired bones.

Blank. There's beauty in this peaceful void. I wish I could stay forever.

I awake to a murder of crows this time. They are wearing school uniforms, feasting on the remains of my sanity. I say something to get rid of them and notice the boy staring at my feet.

River. Like water...

His name is River.

His friends call him, but he isn't listening. He gapes at me, then back at the floor. My fairytale book is there with its pages scattered. It must have fallen out of my satchel when I bumped against another of his fiend friends. I collect it as fast as my trembling fingers allow me and bolt toward the exit.

Blink. I reach the front gate but forget to take my bike with me. Dumbass.

Blink. I try to cling to being here, but my mind disapproves.

Blink. I think of Elsie's depths and its peaceful lakebed.

Blank. Nothing beats the absence of pain. The weightlessness of drifting away.

If only my mind would teach my stubborn heart a lesson. He's a different story. It's holed up in a cardboard box, shivering and gnawing on dumpster memories of a rotten time. A life born after the big suck. That's what I call it. The moment that left me without a dad. No-one said it would be this hard. Not even stories about dead dads, or movies about dead dads. Lies. That's what they told me on that wretched day—all lies.

"It's such a shame for him to part that way," the lady in the white linen dress whispered to the rest of the strangers at the wake. She brought a chicken casserole. Daddy hated casseroles. Why would she bring it? Guess since he won't be eating it, it was okay. No. Nothing was okay anymore. Nothing. Nada.

"Look at you, so grown up. Lovely, just lovely. You have your father's eyes. May he rest in peace," a man in a wrinkled tweed jacket told me. An awkward hug followed. He smelled like mothballs.

Mom ugly-cried, making the twins whimper while I faded and splintered. While I watched in horror how this moment dissected me into the girl before and the girl after.

Welcome to the big suck, Dawn.

Blink. I'm at the lake. My feet seem to have grown a will of their own, and so they take me to the water. I obey with a defeated stumbling, words from the poem echoing in me.

"Let's find out if the fish are taking a nap," Dad says, and I want to listen to his voice for as long as I can.

Sure thing, Daddy.

I wander along the trail and linger at the edge of the lake. A gust of wind tangles my hair and it feels right to look how I am inside. Somehow, the water knows me, it wants me in her arms. I could use a hug right now. So why not?

"Do you remember how we used to laugh at the scary thought that fish sleep with their eyes open because they have no eyelids?" He chortles and I follow suit.

For fish, sleep is more like a resting period similar to a daydream that humans might experience. I googled that, Dad.

I look into the alluring darkness of the lake. I hear it summoning my ferny roots. They'd dry out unless I dive in. My gaze fixates on the ripples that break the calm surface.

Blink. The water is at my ankles.

Blink. It's warm and welcoming.

Blink. If I let it guide me, I might see Dad soon.

I have an idea, Daddy.

"Wait. Shouldn't you be wearing a swimsuit, baby bee?" he says. Then the water is at my knees and the ripples are gone.

It's alright! I don't need one.

"What if you catch a cold? Remember that time when your fever was so high you thought your head could boil up? When was the last time you had a fever?"

I wouldn't know. I haven't been paying much attention to myself. Not after you—I stop. I know if I think anything else, he'll fade away.

Whoa. The water is at my chest now. But I shouldn't worry. It's what I wanted. What my roots need.

Look, Daddy! Look how deep I'm going. Perhaps I'll be able to pay the fish a visit and figure out all about their underwater chit chat. Aren't you curious? The water is at my shoulders now, wrapping around my neck a second after. I shove my fear away, my eyes shut as I sink.

"No need to do that, baby bee." His voice is waning away. It's etched with concern. Why? Is he upset because I ditched classes and came to the lake? He seemed fine with it last time. Is he worried about my health? Does he not want my transition to be complete?

"Please, don't be mad at me. If you don't like my idea, I'll attend classes more often and even try the powwow thing with humans from now on," I say, or want to say, but the lake shoves into my throat. It echoes its way down my stomach. It tugs at my chest and arms too. It yanks me down, grabbing my knees, ankles and feet.

I choke. I try to twist away, but the lake has me in its grip. It whooshes into my eyes, my open mouth and my tongue tastes dirt and wet.

It wants to teach me a valuable lesson. It says, "Dawn, you've made up your mind. Stick to the consequences. I will slip right through you. It will drift to the bottom of you. I'll watch you blubber, bleat and bloat."

Blink. The lake is wise. It should fill me whole.

Blink. Compared to it, I'm nothing but a stupid, useless girl.

Blank. I let it take me as I think of maelstroms, darkness and voids.

But now, here's River. In the lake. With me.

He has his arm under my chin and armpit, I pray he won't touch my wobbly tummy and change his mind about this—I don't know how to name it. He perseveres. He wants to take me back to the shore—his face gives nothing away. There's something wrong with his breathing. It's troubled... The fish are upset. "What are you doing? We wanted to get to know her." River won't listen to them. He keeps going until we are outside the lake.

He drags me onto the grass, and I want to say something, but I'm full of water. I cough, splutter and gag. I might never stop. River leans me on my side as I heave and choke some more.

He looks pissed off and also pale. He runs his left hand through his thick, wet hair while he clutches his chest with his right. Why is his face so ghostly? There's that look I can't decode. I take a ragged breath.

My hair is tangled. My dress is soaked and heavy and I've lost a boot. River sits back, pressing both palms on the wet grass. He's exhausted. Where did he come from?

I look around, and all is soundless now. The lake is quiet. Birds aren't chirping their welcoming songs anymore. Dad is silent too. The pang in my chest suffocates me more than the anger of the brown, earthy water that was inside me and now has abandoned me in disgust.

I suck in another breath, "Thank you." My words come out muffled.

He nods. River is also voiceless, reticent. I rub my eyes. They sting, not from the lake water but with my muted and stagnant tears.

Blink. I've never needed a sound more.

Blink. I don't want to drift away...

Blan—wait. What's that papery thing I see coming out of his backpack?

"It's our crown," Daddy whispers as my bones dry and something I can't put a name to worms through. The branches of the oak trees sway. Rustling they tell me it'd be nice to stay.

"Lie back now, and I'll get the sun to warm you. How about that, baby bee?"

Sounds perfect, Dad. "Thank you."

"You've already thanked me, Dawn."

I yelp. River's voice is in my head now. It barges in. It takes no prisoners. It glues me to this moment like the shoe goo I once used on the sole of my stupid, drowned boot.

A/N- There are some references to Sylvia Plath's words for her dad. I love her poetry and feel deeply for her life. I have attached links to both poems I've read to these past two chapters.