I always knew it would end like this. Fate — that's what they call it. I might have chosen to stay if things had been different, if broken pieces could be made whole again. But they can't. They say a taste of the cherry can stop a suicidal mind, that one last sweetness can pull someone back. Maybe it works for the weak. But I'm not weak. I'm the strongest I've ever been. And still, I don't want to live.
The plastic cover feels light in my hands, flimsy. Strange how something so insignificant can be enough to end a life. But it will do. A few minutes without air, and I'll be gone. I only have one wish — let the past stay where it is. No memories. No regrets. Just stillness.
A knock at the door. Then a voice, desperate and loud. "Yugan! Yugan!" Maybe it's my mother. But I can't face her now. I need to hurry. My fingers tremble as I pull the cover over my face. It resists for a moment, like even it doubts my resolve. But I manage. They're trying to break the door. It won't matter.
Through the plastic, the room blurs. The walls seem farther away, the light dimmer. Then I see it — my childhood photograph on the wall. The same wide-eyed smile, frozen in time, but now it feels different. Haunting. Like it's watching me, questioning. But it's too late for questions.
Shapes fade. Colors dim. It's not as painful as I thought. Just a growing tightness in my chest, a heaviness pressing down. My heart stumbles. The air is almost gone. I can feel it — the slowing, the slipping.
They're still shouting. Still trying. But it's too late.I've crossed that line. And I'm not coming back. The door crashes open. Through the hazy plastic, I can see them. Vague shapes, blurred and distant. Among them, I recognize her — my mother. Her face twisted in fear, calling my name. But her voice is faint now, like a distant echo. They've come. They've found me.
"Otvali." The Russian curse slips from my lips, barely above a whisper. It means fuck off, but no one hears it. Maybe I'm saying it to the stench of the water, thick with chlorine and something rotten. Or maybe to the unbearable heat that wraps around Chennai like a wet blanket. It's warmer here than anywhere else in Asia.
"Otvali, mermaid." Who the fuck created that mermaid character? A novelist? I'm damn sure he would regret it if he were fucking hearing my screams while I act as one. The glass pool stands in the middle of the exhibition hall, pretending to be something magical. Crystal clear from the outside. A perfect illusion. But the water reeks, and the only magic is how I manage to smile through it all.
I adjust the tight mermaid tail around my legs, the sequins catching the light as people gather. Children press their hands against the glass, their eyes wide with wonder. Phones are raised. Cameras blink. They're ready to capture the moment — the perfect mermaid, graceful and otherworldly. I should feel special. Instead, I feel trapped.
But even the glass isn't as suffocating as the presence outside it. Raman, the manager, stands with his arms crossed, his teeth stained red from the endless betel leaves he chews. His gaze lingers too long, the kind that makes my skin crawl. He thinks I don't notice. But I do. I always do. Every dive, every forced smile, every heart-shaped gesture I make with my hands — it's all for the crowd. But Raman watches like I'm his own private show.
I left my Soviet school dreaming of freedom. No more dull classrooms. No more teachers barking orders. I thought nothing could be worse than those gray walls. But poverty has a way of proving you wrong. Now, I perform in a glass cage, wearing glitter and fake pearls. My country defeated Hitler, yet I can't stand up to one man.
"Raman!" The voice cuts through the air, sharp and impatient. Showtime. My stomach twists. It'll be my 78th dive today. I haven't eaten much. Not because I'm not hungry, but because my body doesn't feel like it belongs to me anymore. A mermaid doesn't need food, they say. A mermaid doesn't feel tired. She smiles. She glides. She keeps the magic alive.
I take one last breath, forcing a grin as I dive into the water. It closes around me, muffling the noise. The lights shimmer through the glass, and for a moment, I'm the creature they want me to be. My tail moves in slow, elegant strokes. The children cheer. Cameras flash. I lift my hands and form a heart shape, the universal symbol of joy. But my chest tightens. The burn starts quickly — the ache of lungs begging for air.
There's no oxygen tank. They don't allow it. "Mermaids don't breathe like humans," they say. And I'm not a real mermaid. I'm just a girl in a costume, holding her breath for as long as the applause demands.
I see their smiling faces through the glass. They wave. They laugh. They don't know how badly I need to breathe. But if I rise too soon, I know what waits above the surface. Raman's glare. His judgment. The accusations. "Lazy." "Unprofessional." "Weak." The words sting more than the chlorine in my eyes.
So I stay. The heart I made with my hands still floats mid-water, a perfect picture. They'll post it. They'll call me beautiful. Brave. Magical. But none of them will know that behind the smile, the mermaid is drowning.
I think my oxygen level is dropping. I'm stuck inside the water — not because they tied me down, and not because I can't swim. It's something else. The weight. The emptiness. Maybe I just don't want to come up. Dying seems easier than living like this — pathless, directionless, familyless. Especially passport-less. What's the point of reaching the surface when there's nowhere left to go?