rafferty murdock | four, fin

Listen, calling me the golden child of the Murdocks is like saying I'm the most fryable shrimp in the net. It isn't as big of a compliment as you might think. You think you're complimenting my potential but really what you're saying is that an end of boiling frying oil and chomping teeth is the best I can hope for. No offense to the, like, drowned ancestors or whatever, but we're called the black fins for a reason: it's never been a good thing to see our sail headed your way. And if the best I can hope for is to end up like my old man- soured like milk, cruelty worn in his eyes like reading glasses he slipped on when he got dressed that morning- then I hope the next time I drown, gravity doesn't fuck me over and pull the water out of my lungs again.

Besides, it isn't even really true. I don't think Dad realized it, but he sort of inadvertently saved my life once, during one of the trials. I guess it's worth mentioning that he'd also been the one to kill me, his hand pressed to the scruff of my neck, shoving me deeper into the water for good measure when I went slack. I knew the moment the shadows had started to creep in on the edges of my vision that I was screwed: by the count in my head, I still had another hundred seconds to go. Then I fainted, and the next thing I knew: SMACK, my body thudding against the ground, square on my back. Either the old man slammed me down or let me fall when the timer buzzed, but either way the impact was enough to wake me up and dislodge the water in my lungs. My brothers and sisters said I flopped onto the shore like a squid, and ever since the nickname has plagued me. Especially when Dad is making a big show of what a good example I am: 'Yeah, Squid's the best,' they mock with faux honesty.

It could've scarred me from water forever. I've heard stories. But I think it only ignited something within me, the feeling of helplessness in that moment. I'm only sixteen now. That means I have to survive that experience twice again, each with more time than the last. I'm not even sure it was intentional the first time, but if a flop onto the shore isn't enough to save me next time, I'm a goner. I have to be prepared. I have to.

I bobble along the surface of the indoor pool, eyes closed and enjoying the quiet of my privately-booked time. One perk of the devil being your father: having more money than god. Which makes sense, I guess. The carpentry market is shit here in Four.

We're only allowed to be out on our own for a few select reasons, and luckily enough for me training for the Olympics is one of them! I've been designating practically every free hour I have to swimming laps, working on my strokes (heh), practicing my breathwork most importantly. I've put so much work in by this point that it'll be absolutely priceless when I get to the big day of the competition and lose to some guy from District Ten who has a scummy little catfish pond in his back yard.

If there's any illusion projecting me to my father as role model-worthy now, that'd probably be the final nail in the coffin. Compete like your life depends on it? Ha! Mine actually does. They say every time I swim like it's my last race, and they don't even know it very well could be.

But, the good news is that if I somehow do manage to win, and I somehow also manage to survive the trials, I'll eventually be free to literally never speak to my father ever again. I'll go somewhere he'll never follow, somewhere with no water. Maybe someplace in Ten, close-by to the guy with the catfish pond. Maybe somewhere in District One, with those tall buildings that're always looming in the background of their videos. Or maybe someplace waiting to be remembered. I've only ever felt like I'm destined to be referred to in a past tense, but who knows? I think I could do that, if it meant being elsewhere: I could be the one to remember. It'd be nice, even. To have the chance.