When I was 10 years old, my mother took my older brother and I on a picnic to Newman’s Lake, about a half-hour drive from our house. She’d been looking for cheap ways to get us out of the house for the summer, and this was one of many picnics. This one in particular, however, stood out because it’s when I found out how I would die.
Nobody swims in Newman’s Lake. Nobody smart does, anyways. There are signs every few feet leading up to the water’s edge that warn about alligators. Every once in awhile you’d hear talk of drunk teenagers who fell in, and the grisly fate they’d suffered. All this to say I knew that when I died in Newman’s Lake, it would be no accident that got me in the water.
After we’d had our little sandwiches and fruit snacks by the water, my mom sat on the blanket to read a romance novel and left my brother and I to our own devices. My brother ran to a nearby woods to find a good walking stick, and I slowly made my way to the rickety little dock that stretched nearly to the center of the lake. It looked ancient like any sudden move could collapse it, and there was no railing between the decaying wood and the algae-green lake. As I approached, I felt a sudden bout of dread. Did I really think it wise to walk along the barely standing dock? Yet still, as if compelled, I walked forward.
I knew that the moment I looked at the water I’d lose my resolve. So as I walked along the pier, I studied my own feet against the wood. It felt like a balancing act simply to avoid the obvious rot and holes in the wood. But eventually, I reached the end of the pier and I looked out into the green water. As soon as I did, I felt the water pulling me in, begging me to look closer. For just a moment, I did. I looked at the weeds along the sand, and at the snails and small fish in the water. And beneath all of it, almost as if it were on another, deeper layer that none else could access, I saw a jet black fish made of smoke. It was about the size of a goldfish, and it swirled within itself, like a cloud of dark, spinning sand.
I knew what it was the second I saw it. It was my death. I didn’t know how I knew, and I didn’t know when it would get me, but I knew what it was. I knew it meant that one day, be it soon or in the distant future, I would step off the pier at Newman’s lake and into the disgusting water, and I would let myself drown. Some things cannot be explained by the realm of the natural. I understood that it was strange that I could see my own death, but I also understood it as fact rather than opinion.
As soon as the black fish noticed me looking at it, it hid among the weeds. I knew it wouldn’t come out while I was still there, so I walked back along the dock back to my mom. It was odd, after witnessing your own death you’d think I’d be afraid, but instead, I just felt…empty. As if my own demise were sad, but not something to dwell on. And in a way, it wasn’t like I’d learned anything new that day. I’d already known that I’d die one day. It wasn’t as if I’d learned when I would die, just how. I simply told myself that I wouldn’t go back to the lake, not for a long time, and I let myself believe it.
The next summer, when my mom asked if I wanted to go to Newman’s lake for another picnic, I suggested we go to a local park instead. My mother seemed confused, but off to the park we went, and we all had a good time. It continued like this each year, with me finding some excuse not to go back to Newman’s lake. It continued until I was seventeen.
My friends, Sam, Jason, and I were drinking cheap beer at Jason’s parents’ house while they were out of town. We’d played so many times that we’d run almost completely out of truth or dare questions when Sam asked me the “truth” of how I wanted to die. And I answered as honestly as I could, that it didn’t matter how I wanted to die. That death was waiting for me, already assigned, at the bottom of Newman’s Lake. I should’ve known not to tell them something like this. Should’ve known when Jason’s mouth formed a tiny “o” and his brow furrowed, or when Sam laughed out loud. But I was drunk, and they were my friends, and I thought they’d at least understand.
I should’ve protested when Sam, the most sober of us, dragged Jason and I into his old minivan. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to be seen as a baby, so when they suggested we go to the pond I went with them. My friends didn’t need to know the dread that filled my entire body on the drive over, or the chills on the back of my neck when I realized that I wanted to go back. They didn’t need to know that when they started heckling me to approach the now nearly-falling-over pier it took almost no effort on their part. They didn’t need to know that I felt the strangest sense of home from deep within the murky depths of the water.
As I performed the balancing act to the end of the pier yet again, my friends did not follow. I couldn’t tell if it was fear of falling into the water or fear of whatever was clearly happening to me. I didn’t care. I reached the end of the dock and in the water, yet again, I saw it.
It was still just as pitch black as before, but now about the size of my hand. Because it was bigger now, I could more clearly see the swirling patterns within the fish, the extra plane of space it seemed to occupy beneath everything else. It was disorienting to watch, and yet I couldn’t seem to pull my eyes away from it. It didn’t seem to shy away from my gaze this time, but stayed completely still as if to let me watch the patterns on its back. I was mesmerized, and if my friends hadn’t been behind me yelling my name I don’t know how long I would’ve stood there. I walked back to the edge of the lake and saw them, looking terrified
“What the hell was that?” Sam asked, his voice almost accusatory.
“I told you. I’m going to die here one day. Some things are just…meant to happen.” I said blankly, already missing the sound of the water jostling the dock.
Sam looked at me like I was stupid, but Jason nodded grimly. I wondered if he too, had seen his death. I wondered how many people had seen their death, as I had, felt the iron grip it seemed to have on me. The car ride back was mercifully silent, Sam in disbelief of my behavior, Jason giving me my much-needed space. We went back to Jason’s parents house and continued our game of truth or dare without another word of death.
As the years passed, I grew wary of getting too close to people. In my dreams I was already under the gentle waves of the lake, what use would friends be when I eventually succumbed? After high school, I got a part-time job and took college classes online. With no real friends, no romantic prospects, and no hobbies, sometimes I felt like the cool water would be a mercy from the prison of homework and petty work drama.
It was around that time I started visiting the lake, pretty much daily. My job at a local sporting goods store was a short drive from it, and after every shift, I’d drive to the lake, sit at the end of the pier, and talk to the fish that was my death. I started telling it stories about my life, sometimes. It felt natural that the thing that would end it should know about my life. Sometimes I’d smoke cigarettes, or on especially bad days just play music without speaking. Those were the days I most thought about jumping in, though in retrospect I thought about it every day. I dreamt of it. I began to look forward to getting off of work and going to the lake.
The fish was getting bigger, and harder to miss when I searched the depths of the murky water. While at first it had shied away, it was now impossible to miss, practically the size of a shark. Sometimes I could swear it was reacting to my voice, shimmying its fins in this way or that to signify it was listening. And each day, I got a little closer to the water. Not so close as to fall, or be pulled in by the massive fish, but close enough that I could observe the tiny colonies under the water, and to wish that I could join them.
It was around that time that Jason showed up at my doorstep. He’d moved away after high school to go to a university, and we’d lost touch after. I’d left my parents’ home, but not the town itself. He seemed nervous, but I invited him in and we caught up for awhile before I asked him about the nature of his unannounced visit. He hesitated but overcame his anxiousness to look serious for just a moment.
“Do you remember that time in high school when you got drunk and told us how you were going to die?” He practically whispered.
I nodded. Jason began again. “I know how you feel. I see it everywhere. When I’m driving, I see it pulling me towards the oncoming traffic. When I’m at home I feel it pulling me towards kitchen knives or rope. I can sense it with me all the time. But I just wanted to tell you…it’s not set in stone. You don’t have to listen.”
I was horrified. I never knew that while I was fighting my battle with the lake, Jason fought just as hard. In this shared kinship I felt happy, for the first time in a long time. I’d avoided making connections for so long that it felt odd welcoming someone into my life, but I knew it was what had to be done.
“Thank you. It’s good to know I’m not alone. I’m here for you, anytime you need me.” I told him.
My death still calls to me. Sometimes I still even feel the urge to go to the lake and visit. But I know that death will welcome me with open arms like an old friend, and I don’t want it to catch me with my guard down. Jason and I are friends, and we help each other through difficult days. The days where I dream about the sweet cocoon of water all around me, or Jason holds a knife in his hand as if it were attached. I do not belong at the bottom of the lake, no matter how it calls to me, and with Jason by my side, I hope that we can eventually die by anything other than our own hands.