Bianca
My chest burned, screaming for air as the sunlight above grew dimmer with each passing second. The surface seemed impossibly far away now, wavering like a mirage as I sank further into the depths.
And then, suddenly, I was seven years old again, my father’s hands gripping my shoulders as he stood behind me at the edge of our swimming pool.
“Everyone needs to know how to swim,” he growled, dragging me closer to the edge. “Even little brats like you.”
“No—Dad!”
Ignoring my protests, he pushed firmly against my back, sending me plummeting into the deep end. The water was cold, far colder than I’d anticipated. Then came the terrifying moment when I realized I didn’t know how to move my limbs to stay afloat.
My father’s face appeared above me, a vague outline peer
