Faceless

Deep under the cloudy depths of a murky mangrove creek, six faceless bodies are sinking to the bottom. I try to grab out to them, try to save them, but something holds me back. I turn in the water, my clothes slowing me down, and face the man that is holding me back. He is hardly a man, really; more of a boy in his early twenties. He has long brown hair that floats about his head, trying and failing to get to the surface. His eyes are lifeless, and his skin has an eerie colour to it from the water. He pulls me away from the six bodies, whispering to me. I hear his voice, even though we’re underwater, calling my name urgently. I try to speak back to him and get a lung full of water. I cough violently, my chest roaring with pain, my eyes watering. He touches me on the forehead and the pain is gone, replaced by a numb feeling behind my ribs. I breathe out cautiously, blinking away the tears that had come to my eyes.1

He points towards the six bodies, which are lying in a circle at the bottom of the creek. They seem limp and lifeless, except that each of their left hands is stretched out towards the middle of the circle they have made. I feel a sudden urge to swim towards them, and the man lets go of me, pushing me forward toward them. I kick my legs and swim, pushing through them and holding out my left hand too. We join hands in the centre, and I look into the faces of the other six people. Each of them are different, but they have no faces. One of them has brilliant orange hair, even though it has been dirtied by the murky water. It is flowing around her faceless head, curling like smoke towards the surface. One of them has jet black hair, short curly, and long, muscular limbs. One of them seems smaller than the others, and her hair is blonde and straight. As our hands join together in the middle I feel a shock drive up my arm and into my heart. I almost pull back, but something stops me. Then I clench my fist, and at the same time everyone does, so we are a circle of seven fists. I feel a sharp jab of pain, and something invisible slashes across our hands. When the pain subsides I see a single, curved line has appeared on all of the backs of our hands, so that when they’re together they make a circle. Droplets of blood flow from our cuts and towards the surface, not mingling with the dirty water as they go, as if it’s oil, not blood. A terrible screeching fills my ears, and I close my eyes with the pain. When I open them again I’m gasping for breath, and my lungs fill with clean, cool night air. I’m drenched in water, as if I’ve just been plucked from the creek, and yet I’m in my bed, in my bedroom. I realize the horrible screeching is me, screaming.2

I stop instantly, looking down at my hand, heart beating in my throat. There, on the back of my left fist, is a cut a centimetre thick, stretching from the base of my thumb to the base of my pinkie finger. Although it’s so big, it’s not bleeding at all. I close my hand into a fist so that it opens wider, and see a flash of white that I know is bone. I cover my left hand with my right, and glance around the room, my stomach churning.3

“Dad?” I choke.4