Slater

A bully can stay in your head

The vast, indifferent blue of the Pacific was David’s church, his solace, his escape from the relentless grind of city life. He stroked through the cool, invigorating water, feeling the powerful rhythm of his arms and legs, the glide of his body. The sun, a benevolent eye in the sky, glittered on the surface. He was a small, contented speck in an immense world.

Then, a whisper of alien texture brushed his calf. David kicked casually, assuming a stray leaf or plastic bag. But the whisper became a cling, then a grip. Long, slick tendrils coiled around his ankles, then his shins. Seaweed.

He paused, treading water, trying to untangle himself, a flicker of irritation replacing his calm. But there was too much of it, thick strands like greasy ropes, clinging with an almost deliberate tenacity. It wasn't just on him; it was around him, a dense, dark forest rising from the depths. He felt a sudden, inexplicable tug downwards, a pull on his legs that was more than just the current.

Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of his serenity. He thrashed harder, but the weed only seemed to tighten, its slimy embrace spreading up his thighs, around his waist. It was like being caught in some monstrous, subaquatic net, pulling him back, holding him captive.

And then, with a nauseating lurch, the face appeared in his mind’s eye. Not in the water, but vivid as a photograph: the pale, narrow face of Mark “Slater” Slater.

Slater. David hadn't thought about him in decades. Back in primary school, Slater had been the bane of his existence. Taller, stronger, with a sneer that could curdle milk and a knack for finding David's weakest points. Slater had tripped him in the playground, stolen his lunch money, and, worst of all, had drowned him, almost, in the school pool.

David remembered the moment with crystalline clarity, even through the burgeoning panic of his current predicament. It was during a casual splash fight. Slater, with his wiry strength, had suddenly grabbed David by the shoulders, pushing him under the murky, chlorine-scented water. David had struggled, flailed, but Slater was relentless, holding him down, a dark, shadowy figure above him. The sun through the water had fractured around Slater’s distorted face, and David had seen the glint in his eyes �" not malice, not anger, but a cold, detached enjoyment in David’s fear. He'd been terrified, gulping water, until a teacher had intervened.

Now, as the seaweed tightened its grip, pulling him lower, David felt that same specific terror resurface. It wasn't just the physical struggle; it was the feeling of being deliberately held, prevented from moving, from breathing freely. The weed was strong, unyielding, like wiry, muscular arms.

Slater had died young. A tragic accident, they said, a fall from a cliff during a hiking trip, far from any water, far from David. He’d barely spared a thought for him then, only a brief, guilty pang of relief. The bully was gone.

But what if he wasn't? What if a spirit, a fragment of that relentless, tormenting energy, still lingered? Could it have found its way here, to this stretch of ocean, waiting? The thought was absurd, preposterous, yet it rooted itself in David’s mind with an unnerving solidity.

“Slater?” he choked, a little water going down wrong. The weed seemed to cinch tighter, a malicious laugh echoing not in his ears, but in the frantic thump of his heart. The sea, once his solace, now felt like a vast, watery grave, and the seaweed, its grasping, suffocating hand.

He kicked and pulled, frantic now, fueled by a primal fear that transcended physical danger. This wasn't just nature; this was personal. He imagined Slater’s pale face just beneath the surface, eyes wide, glinting with that chilling enjoyment, his ghostly hands tightening the vegetable ropes.

With a desperate, animalistic roar, David thrashed, twisting his body, tearing at the slimy strands with his fingernails. He felt a sharp sting as a particularly thick tendril scraped across his arm. He ducked his head, inhaling deeply, then pushed upwards with all his might, legs churning like furious pistons.

Slowly, agonizingly, he began to gain an inch, then another. The weed resisted, pulling back, but David was stronger, driven by the lingering specter of his childhood tormentor. He broke free of the thickest mass, ripping through the last few strands with a violent surge.

Gasping, coughing, he broke the surface, gulping down air as if it were ambrosia. He spun around, wide-eyed, heart hammering against his ribs. The water around him was clear now, save for a few loose fragments of kelp drifting harmlessly. The dense, clutching forest of weed seemed to have receded, or perhaps it had never been quite as encompassing as his panic had made it seem.

He floated there, trembling, trying to rationalize it away. Just a patch of dense seaweed. A strong current. A vivid imagination triggered by fear. But as he slowly, cautiously, began to stroke back towards shore, he couldn't shake the chill that had nothing to do with the ocean’s temperature. He cast a glance over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a ripple on the surface, a faint, mocking smile in the shimmering blue.

The ocean still held its vast indifference, but for David, it would forever hold the ghost of a bully, the chilling memory of hands that reached from the depths, and the unsettling question: had he truly escaped the weed, or had he merely been released by something far older and more malevolent than just the sea?