submarine sketch pt. 1
Sometimes Rose thinks she’s never felt as tired as she does right now. Whatever it was that has been keeping her going for the past five – no, six – years faded just as soon as she reached here and could yell base with one hand keeping her safe, and the exhaustion of running, running, running for so long set into her bones. She hadn’t been exactly flying all of those years; she’d needed Luisa more than she could’ve said, needed her to tether her to herself, needed her not to give a final goal post – she had always had that, just shifted it ever so slightly – or a reason to reach that post – she had chosen it herself, had worked towards it for so many years – but the same way a prisoner in dodgeball needed someone to run across the field without getting hit and let them out again.
She hadn’t told her that, though. She wasn’t sure how to put it into words.
The worst of it was being on this submarine. It was, of course, a great place to hide, given that they could be anywhere under the sea (darling, it’s better down where it’s wetter – take it from me, as if she didn’t know that, as if she hadn’t preferred those intimate parts of her lovers, as if it was really all about the sea at all), but the problem was—
She was having trouble sleeping.
The gentle rocking of the waves against the submarine, its semi-constant creaking and groaning, the little noises of a machine living and breathing were cold and death to someone who had trained herself to snap awake at the slightest sound because just that little creak, that little noise could be someone creeping into her bedroom at a word from one of her many, many enemies who had finally figured out who she was (or had been handpicked by Elena, who had always known) to destroy her. Even as a child, Clara had had trouble sleeping. Sometimes she’d woken up somewhere completely different from where she’d fallen asleep, rubbing her eyes and yawning and why was she standing in front of the fridge, holding it open? Of course, in that scenario, she’d gotten herself a sandwich and a glass of warm milk, eaten, and then tried to go back to sleep, but in others, she’d been less fortunate. And then, after her mother left, she’d wanted to stay with her father to make sure that he wouldn’t leave her and found herself kicked and punched out of his bed in his drunken stupor, and then tired, and sore, and bruised, she would curl up on the cold, hard floor with the pillow and blanket she’d taken from her room only to be kicked away again when her father woke and didn’t feel like picking her up by the scruff of her neck to move her out of his way.
One would think that this would deter her from using a submarine to hide at all – why would someone so clearly exhausted and so desperately in need of a relaxing place to lay down and rest pick something that would prevent them from doing so and just grow more and more tired?
One word: Luisa Alver.
Admittedly, that’s really two words, but it’s one person, which is the important thing.
Rose stares at the woman curled up in bed next to her. Luisa’s eyes are closed, and her mouth is open the slightest bit. She won’t say it because she refuses to believe it when Rose tells her, but she’s snoring. It’s a small little thing – blink and you’d miss it – and she usually doesn’t start until she’s deep in REM sleep, when most of her companions would be asleep, too. Luisa has a horrible habit of wanting to stay awake longer than her partners, and while she hasn’t given up where Rose is concerned, the truth of the matter is that she, too, is exhausted. Rose can see it in the way her hands slowly relax as she fades into unconsciousness, the soothing of the lines deeply engraved into her brow, the loosening of her jaw – which never looked as tight as Rose did only because it was always tight with anxiety and trying to keep herself from blurting something out that she should keep to herself. Relaxed as she is, Luisa is even more beautiful. She keeps one hand up on the pillow next to her, and she’s still facing Rose because she’d been staring, disbelieving, at her before she fell asleep.
The submarine is for her. It’s soothing. She can wake in the morning when Rose has slipped from the room for some important detail or other and stare out the circular window and see one of any number of fish who keep curiously drifting past their vessel. They’ve been circling the reef, and more often than not those fish are as brightly colored as the ones Rose knows decorated the walls in Luisa’s bedroom when she was small – she’s seen them almost everywhere Emilio has taken her where he owned a residence, the fish and the waves and the sea and the little water features that bubble and lead her into relaxation.
And when she chooses to return to her own room, needing to be away from her, then it is even more tailored to her. Because of the way their submarine is angled, the way it circles the reef, her window is always facing it, always presented with coral and anemone and those distinct features that Luisa loves. The lightbulb was replaced with one that gave off a soft blue glow, so that she looked just as much under the sea as she was.
Most days, Luisa still wants to be in her room, away from Rose, but some days, like today, she stays.
Rose reaches over and tucks a stray strand of frumpled, wavy brown hair back behind her ear. Luisa’s nose scrunches up, and she lets out a little strangled sound. Then she sighs ad relaxes again.