Submerged

         Derrick was making the most of his rushed, meager breakfast, today he was languishing in the grip of his father's favorite leather recliner. The bright morning sunshine streaked inward through beveled kitchen window panes and fell upon the rough surface of the newsprint he focused on. The dark and deep, bold set letter type of the newspapers headline, forebodingly told of a luxury cruise liner lost at sea. Derrick did not know why, but he couldn't prevent himself from reading the piece in its entirety. His eyes were drawn to its text and as he focused on each line the surrounding words of other editorials faded out of focus. The occasional dust mote drifted into his line of view but he’d barely notice its intrusion. As the harrowing tragedy began to unfold in his mind, his smallish pale hands would grip the paper tighter. Over 3,000 men, women and children had been lost to the cold Atlantic Ocean and there was little trace of the herculean Montgomery to be found. Derrick was stunned so thoroughly by this gross loss of life that he could not – for several long moments – form a coherent thought. In that instant the only sensation that filled his head was that of shuddering, nauseating dread. It had beset him so suddenly, he felt helplessly trapped, and he fought searing pain struggling to breathe. And then all at once this overpowering and drowning episode of emotions ended, Derrick found, joyously, that he could again draw breath. Taking a savored inhale of air he focused once more upon the front page story. Something about this newspaper struck him as odd. It appeared from every facet to be a normal run of the mill issue of The New York Times. Hurriedly and perhaps a little flippantly, Derrick skimmed through the entire paper front to back. Nothing seemed to be weird or out of place, there seemed to be no reason for his paranoia. Nothing, except the inconspicuous text along the top margin, which read: February 17th, 1982. It was just the date, the current month, day and year and there was nothing really weird about that. But, Derrick would not let himself rationalize away this small details importance. Something weighed heavily on the back of his mind. A small hoarse voice whispered to him, whispered from the depths of his sub-consciousness, saying: “Tomorrow, tomorrow, 16 days past is today, 16, 16, 16….” Derrick sat thinking, “16 days, 16....What did that mean….Today, today is the 16th… the 17th is tomorrow!” The paper, the rough grey paper he held in both his god given hands was now a surreal, fantastic object. How could he be reading tomorrows morning paper today?! Was this a joke? His mind raced and spewed forth several diverging lines of thought. Before he could follow any thread of thought a roaring crash filled the kitchen deafening Derrick. His thoughts shredded, Derrick sat paralyzed in the immediate fog of temporary deafness and did not move until the soft sound of trickling water reached his ears. And just as he realized what it was he was hearing, he felt the sharp bite of frigid water on his bare toes. His homes kitchen was beginning to fill with cold Arctic water and it seemed to pour out from every orifice and crevice. The once bright sunlight which had filled the room had been banished by this invader. The tall, wide glass windows had been replaced by a small and sullen port hole. No longer was the sight from it an idyllic neighborhood scene, it had become a sickening landscape of monstrous, crashing waves. Inside the kitchen it was dark and in mere minutes the black cold water had risen to Derrick’s chest. It was rising at a constant rate and soon he was pressed forcefully against the stucco ceiling. It was at this point that Derrick began to have significant trouble breathing, and it was at this point, also, that the last cubic centimeters of air had been forced from the room. Now completely submerged in the chilling, salty brine his once focused vision started to fade; as darkness slowly encroached, edging out the details of what Derrick saw last. It was the final bits of the terrible and prescient newspaper which had listlessly come to rest upon the tiled floor below.



         The sweat drenched body of Derrick Touley lurched upright as he came awake. The first mate’s intimidating voice called for him by name. “Touley! Touley, you’d better not be sleepin’ in again, you lazy S-O-B. What the hell are all these people goin’ tah eat if you don’t get your ass in heruh?!” It took him a second to realize what was happening. It was just a dream, just a damn nightmare. He scrambled out of his bunk and depressed the ‘Talk’ button on the intercom. “I’m comin’ sir. I’m on my way.” “You're damn right, son.” snapped the first mate in acrid reply. Derrick slipped into his garçon uniform and checked his watch as he slipped out of his cabin. It was the 17th of February and besides his rather frenzied wakeup call all signs pointed to another run of the mill day in the galley of the S.S. Montgomery.