I hate this water. 

It’s freezing, yet boiling me alive. I’m gasping for air, flailing like a sparrow on a sadistic glue trap. My burning lungs crush the strength of my voice. I force my eyes open to the world above, where hands lay outstretched in the promise of aid. Warped faces crease their brows and call my name, but I cannot let them have the satisfaction of salvation. It is my responsibility to escape. I seize the edge of the tiled wall and drag myself out limb by limb, sputtering and coughing up water and spit. 

I come back to the pool the next morning.  The water is stagnant and placid, clear and docile. I send gentle ripples away from my fingertips, watching them roll across the surface. How was I so naive to have fallen in? 

A frantic splashing draws my attention to the far side of the pool. Familiar sounds rouse my curiosity, and I rise to my feet, gazing towards the commotion. There is another person drowning, whose garbled cries for help echo plaintively off the glossy walls. A twisted smile blooms across my face. Putrid, vile hatred presses against my throat. 

I turn and walk the other way.