March 2015
The Light That Moves Inward and Outward
Three Years Later, 17 October 2018
Komméno Island, 8.4 miles northwest of Crete
I’m woken by the sounds of feet shuffling by my ears and voices knitting together in panic.
Is she dead? What should we do? Joe! You know CPR, don’t you?
A weight presses down against my lips. The bitter smell of cigarettes rushes up to my nostrils. Hot breath inflates my cheeks. A push downward on my chest. Another. I jerk upright, vomiting what feels like gallons of disgusting salty liquid. Someone rubs my back and says, Take it easy, sweetie. That’s it.
I twist to one side and lower my forehead to the ground, coughing, choking. My hair is wet, my clothes are soaking and I’m shaking with cold. Someone helps me to my feet and pulls my right arm limply across a broad set of shoulders. A yellow splodge on the floor comes into focus: it’s a life jacket. Mine? The man holding me upright lowers me gently into a chair. I hear their voices as they observe me, instructing each other on how to care for me.
Is that blood in her hair?
Joe, have a look. Has the bleeding stopped?
It looks quite deep, but I think it’s stopped. I’ve got some antiseptic swabs upstairs.
My head starts to throb, a dull pain towards the right. A cup of coffee materialises on the table in front of me. The smell winds upwards and sharpens my vision, bringing the people in the room into view. There’s a man nearby, panting from effort. Another man with black square glasses. Two others, both women. One of them leans over me and says, You
