Description
"Sink or swim, Riley," my father once said to me. Rays of sun battered the pier deck, gliding over the water's surface like hundreds of shimmering snakes. His words were delivered moments before I found myself hurtling towards the subtle waves at his hand. I drowned that day. Twice. The day he died was not a day I mourned, nor was it one I celebrated. The lessons he taught me are etched so deeply into the back of my brain that I can't fill the holes they burned. He taught me to survive and he taught me how to hate. He told me that love did not exist, and that expression of emotions should be punishable. He asked me to be perfect and he beat his expectations into me. My father threw me into the deep end and I've been struggling to keep my head above the surface ever since. I don't know how much longer I can struggle against the current. The waves keep breaking over my head, hurling me further and further back towards the place I've tried so hard to claw myself out of. I'm drowning again, and the water is turning dark. I can't reach the lifelines at the surface. But I'm not the only one sinking, this time. I was taught to survive at any cost, even if that means letting someone else drown. My father said, "If you drown, you weren't built to survive." He only knew how to save himself. He didn't believe in mercy. The most important lesson I ever learnt from my father was that I could never let myself turn into him. He built me to survive and yet I'm drowning. Maybe he was wrong when he told me that you can't teach someone to swim when you're sinking.
a/n./prologue.
