Swimming Through Glass

The hospice ward at 3 AM was its own kind of limbo—machines humming their artificial heartbeats, the smell of antiseptic and inevitable endings. Sarah had taken to calling them 'zombies' in her head, though never aloud. Bodies kept moving when the person inside had already departed, sustained by tubes and monitors and family members who couldn't say goodbye.

Her nightstand held a single goldfish in a bowl, a parting gift from Mr. Henderson three weeks ago. 'Three-second memory,' he'd wheezed, pressing the plastic bowl into her hands. 'Must be nice, wouldn't you think? To just keep swimming the same loop and never notice you're going nowhere.' He died two days later.

She'd named him Arthur.

Now Sarah kicked off her shoes and stepped into the apartment complex pool at midnight, the only time she could truly breathe. The water was always slightly too cold, shocking her skin into feeling something real. She began swimming laps, counting strokes because counting kept her from thinking about Room 312, where a woman named Eleanor was still breathing despite her brain having ceased activity three days ago.

Eleanor's daughter sat in that room day after day, holding her mother's hand, talking about wedding dresses and kindergarten graduations as if Eleanor might suddenly sit up and laugh. As if the woman lying there wasn't already gone, her body kept in this terrible state of almost-departure.

Sarah's arms cut through the water, rhythm perfect, mind empty. This was why she swam—twenty minutes of forgetting. Of being nothing but motion and breath.

When she pulled herself from the pool, dripping and exhausted, she found her phone buzzing. Another text from her sister: 'Still at the hospital? Mom needs you to sign the papers. It's been two months, Sarah.'

She walked home dripping wet, let herself into her dark apartment. Arthur was still swimming his endless circles, meeting her eyes through curved glass as she fed him.

'You lucky bastard,' she whispered, watching him glide through water that would never hold a ghost. 'Every three seconds, you get to start over.'