Two men and a woman climb over the railing and dive into the ocean, their funeral attire flapping in the wind like black raven feathers. One man shrieks uncontrollably, his plump hands pressed to his ears. One woman faints. This is much as I glimpse before Canosa lifts her arm to pin me down. Her face is distorted; her fine velvet hat is gone, revealing a mangy clump of thinning hair. Her body is twisted underneath the posh black dress fit more for a circus performance than for a funeral. In slow motion, I watch my right leg lift, aim, and hit her square in the chest so that she flies ten feet into the air and crashes on top of a dead man, black lacquered pumps flying off her feet, her multiple skirts ballooning and settling. I stand and stretch out my arms for balance, feeling a little dizzy, my focus on my father.

"I wanted you to hear me sing. You never came to my choir performance, but I forgive you," I say to him, louder, to make sure he hears me.

Astounded, and perhaps scared, he raises his hands in front of his face in a protective gesture, takes a step back, and hits the door. Canosa hisses, scrambles onto her hands and knees and runs at me with a shrill screech. I meet her head on; grabbing her shoulders, I lift her and throw her back another ten feet, into the corner between the salon's wall and the railing, not too far from where my father stands. I do it effortlessly, knowing that she's scared, continuing my march forward.

"You never bothered to hear me sing, never heard me when I talked to you, never listened to what I had to say. You wanted a son, not a daughter. You probably never really loved me. But it's okay, I get it. I understand why, and I forgive you."

I spread my arms into the thicket of noise, seeing bodies around me rush aside in panic, stepping on limbs, pieces of broken glass, moving forward, unperturbed.

"Ailen Bright, a girl who can't follow simple rules. I thought I told you not to meddle in my business!" Canosa's screech mixes with the screams of the remaining people. I ignore her. She is merely trying to provoke me. I'm not afraid to die. I know that she knows it and hesitates for that very reason. I have nothing else to lose.

"You told me I'd never amount to anything. You were right. I didn't, and I'm sorry. I tried. I tried really hard, I swear. I failed miserably. I'm sorry I hurt you. And for all those times you hurt me, I forgive you."

He just stares.

There is a bridge of newfound communication between us, slung across the salty ocean air, dark, shimmering with finality, as if death itself is watching us with eager interest, woken up from her usual slumber.

"You beat my mother, you hurt her, you killed her. You beat me, you called me names. We were things to you, useful only for carrying water, just as you lectured me about at every opportunity. You never noticed me for who I truly was, unrelated to my gender. It took for me to die for you to see me, to hear me. But it's okay, I get it, and I forgive you."

"What is this, Roger? What is she doing? Did you...tell her?" Canosa throws at my father.

He only shakes his head.

She curses loudly, clenching her fists and jumping high over the deck, with the clear intent of fleeing overboard. She must have made up her mind to sink the boat. I leap and intercept her in the air, easily, landing softly with her firmly in my arms and pinning her to the railing. She swivels her frightened eyes at me.

"Please," I tell her. "Don't interrupt me." I grab a handful of her hair and fling her back into the corner again.

My father doesn't move, frozen as a statue. It must be a horrible sight, watching the two remaining women in his life possess more power than ten of him ever would.

"Papa?" I say. "Don't be scared. I don't mean to hurt you. I simply want to give you a gift. A song, just for you. Because...because I love you." I stop about fifteen feet away from him, standing in the middle of the deck, between two curled up dead bodies—two women from the choir, their black dresses torn, their hair matted.

I tilt my head up, inhale, and let out a note, penetrating and overpowering, full of tenderness and adoration and longing. It rises steadily into the sky, past laden clouds, its melody thick with urgency, guttural, hypnotic. It's the siren song, and I infuse it with love.

"I live in the meadow,

But you don't know it,

My grass is your sorrow,

But you don't show it."

Those remaining on the boat turn their faces to me and gasp in obvious admiration. Their faces clear, oblivious to the thickening clouds and the eye of a storm hanging directly over the boat, gathering in response to my song.

"Give me your pain,

Dip in my song.

Notes afloat,

Listen and love.

Listen and love.

Listen...and LOVE."

They listen. Even Canosa props herself up on one elbow, enchanted. I realize something else. It doesn't matter if Papa hears me or not. It's a gift. It will find his heart if he decides so, it's not up to me. All I have to do is give.

And I do. I look him in the eyes. He doesn't move. I keep pouring love into my a capella performance. There is so much of it, I simply can't stop. No instrumental accompaniment is needed, it's replaced with a flood of memories, rare, cherished moments between us weaving into this song. I see a mist of recognition in Papa's eyes. I push my voice an octave higher, then another, and another, overpowering the noise around me and silencing even the ocean itself, the wind, the seagulls.

"I stir up your hope,

Calm down and let go.

My love is your slope,

Slide here,

Don't forego."

I place a hand on my heart as I finish the verse. People stumble toward me, mesmerized, their black attire adding to this bizarre scene that's quickly unfolding. The little girl grabs my arm from behind and someone else pulls on my legs. They surround me, a mere dozen of them left, a few women, more men, and one little girl. I can't see my father anymore from behind their hungry faces, but I keep singing, giving myself away.

"Listen and love.

Listen and love."

Hands begin tearing at me, looking for a piece of that sweetness, that something to quench their thirst, their yearning for knowledge that they, too, belong, in this careless existence that we call happiness, the very thing sirens have the talent to induce. Fake happiness, to lure them to their deaths.

Hunter's words ring in my head once more. They find you dead in the morning. They can't say what happened. It looks like your heart stopped. They search and can't find anything. No footprints, nothing. What's creepy, though, is that you're smiling. Dead, but smiling. Like you were your happiest just before you died.

"Get off her, she's mine!" Canosa dives through, pushing people aside. A streak of saliva trails from her open mouth, and she sinks her nails and teeth into my flesh.

I don't flinch, fully letting go. Nothing else matters.

"Finally. You belong to me, silly girl. To me alone." She utters the growl of a satisfied animal, eating at last.

Others join in to a tangle of disarrayed hair and squirming bodies. Limbs reach to me in unison, like dozens of frog tongues flicking at their catch, missing, wanting more. I spread my arms to my sides and reach for the air to keep singing. There is still a lot of love left inside of me, and they eat it all up.

Ailen Bright, the center of the feast.

The dessert after the main dish, the exquisite confection.

I fall onto the deck under the weight of their greediness. Hands work their way up to my face. My torso is covered with them like leeches, gorging themselves, sucking on my sugar, drop by drop. They can't rip my skin, but Canosa does so easily with her nails, and they pick up where she leaves off. The thunder strikes again, causing the boat to shake, the crowd collapsing on me in a wave, biting, tearing, wet with their feeding frenzy. No blood seeps out of my torn veins, only sea water, clear, bitter, and salty.

I feel my core open, then my throat, and I choke on the song.

"Papa!" I yell.

My neck is being torn to pieces, but my voice still rings.

"Can you hear me? Help me, Papa, please. I'm dying, I'm dying!"

Then someone takes it out. The very source of my voice. My vocal cords. They're gone. There is no electrical shock throwing my pursuers away like it did to Hunter on the trawler. It's because I'm not fighting. There is no hate left in me, only love.

My voice dies.

Ailen Bright, mute, to be buried at sea.

The mass of arms leaves me on the floor, an empty useless shell, a discarded mollusk, my vocal cords their pearly capture, their promised treasure. It's what produced their hunger, their elation. It woke them up. It made them feel.

They forget all about me, fighting for that sorry string of mucous membrane, a couple of trembling grapes that used to be stretched across my larynx, my own private conductor.

Torn and bleeding, I manage to raise my head and see him one more time. He stands in the same spot, by the door, his black silk shirt perfectly ironed, his face lifeless and ashen. He stares at me in a debilitating paralysis, his mouth slightly open and unmoving.

Did you like it? My song, did you like it? I want to ask, but no sound comes out. I have no voice left. Perhaps it was a final note to melt him. I drop my head back on the floor, and then I hear it.

"ENOUGH!" he shouts and darts to me.

I was right. He cares. He loves me after all.

"Stop it!" He shakes me. "Stop this suicidal nonsense. You never listen to me." He grabs my face in both hands.

"What did I tell you? You were supposed to wait. Why can't you follow simple instructions, Ailen? Now you've ruined everything." I hear the trace of tears in his voice. He drops on his knees, careless, oblivious to his fine wool suit getting dirty in the filth, cradling my head in his lap.

"Look at you. How did you grow up to be so stubborn?" His voice catches. He strokes my hair. And, suddenly, he kisses my forehead. It's a quick, awkward peck, and it's worth dying for.

I love you, I speak with my eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this before? I didn't know singing was so important to you. If I only knew..." It's like he heard me, he finally heard me.

I tried to tell you. I tried, many times.

"What do I do with you now? Don't you dare die on me. I forbid you." He presses his cheek to my forehead, and it's real. His pretense is gone, I can feel it.

"It's not true, what you said," he whispers. I wish I could see his face. Instead, my eyes stare into his shaved neck. He lets go of my head, grabs my shoulders, and presses me to his chest, so that my nose hits his shirt. I can smell his cologne, discern his scorched soul singing, and hear his heart beating.

"I love you," he says. "I've always loved you. From the moment you were born."

I blink to make sure I'm not dreaming. This is too easy. Have I finally succeeded in getting through to him? It's impossible to believe. Tears roll down his face in two feeble lines. I know, because they drop on my head.

"Talk to me, sweetie. Talk to me. Say something."

We're face to face again, but I can't answer. Now that he wants to listen to me, my voice is gone. I can only stare, there are no tears left inside to spill.

He really meant it. Italy. Everything. It wasn't a lie. I weep inside, happy.

The murmur of the crowd dies. Souls scatter toward the abyss of death, one by one, until all sound fizzes out. Did Canosa eat them all? The cacophony of shrieks stops and the thunder vanishes. The boat levels and swings slightly side to side. Papa's clumsy affection is the only thing I feel, his concerned face all I see. I know there is danger of Canosa breaching the hull of the boat or rousing a tsunami or a whirlpool or some other disaster of this sort, but I have no more strength to worry about it right now. My eyes, they hurt. I close them.

I think about Hunter.

If he was here, he'd say, Hey, what's up, brat? So tell me, was it worth it? You know, killing yourself and stuff. Was it worth the trouble? Worth your pain?

And I'd say, Totally. It was. This moment, right here, right now, was worth dying for. I'd die for it a hundred times over.

And he'd just nod, understanding. We'd sit like this, silent, for hours.

I think I'm falling asleep, finally, for the first time in six days since my jump. But I thought sirens can't sleep? Is this death? My last conscious thought is, Will I wake up to see you next to me, Papa?

I dream about Hunter. We're ten. We stand by the lake, grabbing handfuls of flat stones so we can send them scattering against the evening sun.

I dream about my mom and the way she used to sing to me, to chase the nightmares away; her soft hands in my hair, her smile, her warm smell—a mix of cinnamon, freshly washed hair, and the hot chocolate that she used to make me when I woke up in the middle of the night, scared.

I dream about my father. About a small white house somewhere on the outskirts of Rome. It's a sunny morning, and we're getting ready to listen to the opera, him smiling at me, me smiling back.

I don't know for how long I sleep. Hours, days, years...My dreams finally end, yet I don't feel rested like I used to after sleeping. This was no sleep after all. This was a blackout with extremely vivid hallucinations.

There is a jolt.

My eyelids flutter open.

It's foggy. Dusk has cast its lavender haze over the sky. Like an empty amplifier, it hangs above the ocean, eager to reflect any noise. There is none, not even a single seagull cry, only the white hum of the shifting water. The air smells of salt and decay. It shifts to send off a barely detectable draft, a shadow of a wave, tiny at first, then larger, reaching the yacht, lifting it a fraction of an inch.

My senses slowly return to normal. I hear shuffling against the hull of the boat and a resounding shudder comes through the floor, rumbling under me in a mini earthquake.

Someone is hitting it with great determination.

Canosa. My heart pounds fast. She's damaging the boat. She's breaching it. Water gushes into its belly with a roar. Shit! We're gonna sink. Papa! Where are you?

I take stock of my surroundings. I lie on my back in the middle of the deck, where I fell. My neck refuses to turn to let me see more. Everything hurts and itches. Broken glass cuts into my elbows when I try to lift myself. I lay still.

A song reaches me. Canosa's song. She hums along, like one would hum in the middle of doing something enjoyable, adding rhythm to the flow of action. I attempt to lift my head again, struggling to move my arms, but I only pant faster, exhausted by the effort.

Papa, where did you go?

How I wish I could speak. Transfixed, I stare at the sky.

It's Canosa! I want to scream. She's sinking the boat!

I grit my teeth, grunt, and with the force of sheer will, I manage to roll over onto my stomach. My right cheek lands on the floor. A sharp piece of glass cuts into it. I barely notice, staring ahead. There he is. His back to me, he stands at the very end of the deck, by the overturned platform, amidst the debris left over from my casket, looking over the railing. He's not moving, a solid black outline against the purplish mist, a sonic gun in each hand, his legs apart in a warrior stance. He looks like a true siren hunter, ready for battle.

Papa!

As if he heard me, he turns and smiles, then puts an index finger to his lips as if to say, It's okay, sweetie, I heard you, and I hear her, don't you worry. Now, I want you to be quiet. Can you do that for me? I blink my agreement. He turns back.

I want to crawl to him, sizing up the distance. There are a good twenty feet between us, and not a single body. They're gone. Did he throw them overboard? Or stacked them neatly in the salon?

Vibrations penetrate the air, coming from below. Canosa seems to be working her way around the hull, punching holes in it as she goes. Water rushes in. Slowly, I understand what Papa is waiting for, what he's about to do. I press my hands down and pull myself forward an inch, then another, trembling from weakness, wanting to reach him, to help him.

If only I could sing, I'd send a storm her way. I'd hum us all the way to Italy, like you wanted, to go to the opera every single day. Just you and me.

Then all noise stops.

The fog hangs motionless, vast and shallow at the same time. It's impossible to tell how far it reaches. Maybe it covers the entire ocean, or maybe it's simply a small cloud that surrounds only our boat. The air turns moist and chilly. The wind dies down to nothing. I hear drops of condensation drip to the floor off the railing.

I don't like this dotted silence.

What is going on?

Papa stands, waiting. I keep pushing myself forward, inch by inch. A swarm of healing activity crawls all over me, knits my muscles back together, mends my bones, closes my skin, and sears my throat over my empty larynx.

I'm mute. I can't even moan. But I can hear. I listen for any sign of Canosa, any movement in the water, any trail of her song. For a second, silence is complete. Then it erupts at once.

Once a beautiful creature, and now a hideous distorted hag of a freak, she leaps out of the fog, screaming, her hair flailing like a torn bleached cape behind her.

"Go on, do it!" she shrieks. "What are you waiting for? How rude of you. You kn—"

She doesn't finish. Papa starts firing.

Boom!

My eardrums protest in pain, convulsing in tune to the blow. I cover my ears as best I can.

Blaaaam!

Canosa drops on the deck, writhing in agony.

The boat creaks and shifts a whole foot down, like a broken elevator that threatens to fall into the depth any second, but decides to hold still for a moment, to keep you in suspense. Papa sways forward, barely regaining his balance. She's at his feet, her limbs and head spread out into a five point starfish. Her black dress is gone, and her skin is brittle and taut, pulsing. Papa directs both guns at her face and fires double.

A thousand thunders explode in my skull. Closing my eyes doesn't help; pressing my hands over my ears doesn't shield me from this double detonation. It's so powerful I think I will explode. The blast travels at supersonic velocity, causing my innards to spasm, release, spasm again.

Its echo dies. Shivering all over, my teeth chattering, I dare to open my eyes.

Canosa twists on the floor about ten feet away. She lifts her head to look at me and, despite her wreck of a face, she's strangely beautiful. Her hair hangs in thick clumps, kissing the boat's floor like a magnificent wooly blanket. Her eyes open wide, irises shrunk to the bright green outlines of two large black pools.

"Ailen Bright. What are you still doing here?" she croaks. "Go away, silly girl. It's no fun being dead. It's booooooring."

I open and close my mouth, unable to speak.

"Are you deaf?" she says. "I don't want you to be one of us anymore. Shoo!" She turns her head away from me and looks up at my father. He stands beside her. His head hangs down, a grimace of pain on his face. His knuckles are white, fingers curled around the handle of the sonic gun. One of them. The other is on the deck by his feet. He's aiming at Canosa's face, but his arm is shaking.

"It will be like we never met, Roger. I promise you. I can't continue going on like this. Can you?" she asks.

"No. You know I can't." His voice is very quiet.

"Well?" she says with her typical brashness.

He nods and fires again.

My whole body sears with hot pain from the sonic boom.

Canosa gets it worse. She shimmers for a few seconds, as if composed of a million water droplets, and then turns opaque, converging back into herself. She blinks and opens her mouth to speak again.

Papa emits another shot, and another, and another. He fires nonstop, until her body disintegrates into a foggy impression of a siren. Before she bursts completely, her mouth opens up into an O, like she's telling me, Go!

Then he blasts her into nothing. I get doused by the fine mist. And the boat dips backward.