I dove headfirst into the raging waters.
The current dragged me under and pushed me against jagged rocks and broken branches that scratched and cut my skin.
Regaining control, I pressed my body against the current's stranglehold and swam toward the surface. As I broke through, I inhaled sharply, filling my lungs with fresh air and mist.
Swimming was as necessary as walking. Parents do know best.
In front of me, the young boy's form bobbed up and down in the water before rapids reclaimed him and dragged him under again.
Why had I done this? I questioned myself as I dove back under. No immediate answer came to me, because it wasn't a logical decision.
Through the murky depths, I spotted his silhouette being tossed by the current. I surged toward him, pushing my legs to beat against the water with every ounce of energy I had, even though it felt like struggling against a magnetic force or like swimming through syrup.
Reaching out with my right arm, I gripped his arm, pulling him toward me just as a massive piece of driftwood barreled by, missing us by mere inches.
Even as a trained swimmer, doubts filled my mind about whether either of us would actually make it. It was likely that we would both drown.
No, not before I get my hands on the bastards that dumped me out here.
The desire to exact revenge propelled me to kick harder, as we made our way to the surface. I pushed forward, my muscles straining and lungs burning for oxygen.
Our ascent was violently halted as we were caught in a current. The river smashed me against a towering boulder, knocking the remaining air from my body.
Don't inhale. Don't panic.
Gritting my teeth, I threw out my free arm, fingers seeking a lifeline on the slick stone surface as the river threatened to pull us further downstream. I found a jagged aperture, and I clung on, the sharp edge slicing the skin open.
Grasping the boy tightly, my feet searched for footholds on the boulder's surface. I located a small jutting, and with painstaking effort, I heaved us both out of the water and onto the rock's sloped ledge.
I had no idea how far we had been carried downstream, as everything looked the same around us, other than the missing shrieking children.
Carefully positioning my hand over the child's mouth and nose, I checked for his breath, but there was none. I pressed my mouth to his and blew into his tiny frame, and pressed on his chest three times.
Muffled shouts reached my ears.
"We're over here," I screamed back.
The cries grew closer, but I didn't dare look up to locate them, as the boy continued to lie still.
Am I doing this wrong? I second-guess myself as I pressed on his chest with shaky and bleeding hands.
My vision blurred with hot tears.
It's not working. Why isn't it working?
I was not prepared to fail. How do teenage lifeguards handle this?
Just as hopelessness threatened to consume me, the boy let out a ragged gasp, water spilling from his purple lips. I helped him to his side, my hand rhythmically patting his back, aiding him in purging the cold river from his lungs.
I glanced toward the shoreline and saw a large gathering of people. Many clutching their chest or sides, even doubled over, gasping for air. I knew the feeling.
There were even some atop horses. Beautiful creatures, with their dark coats shimmering in the golden hour glow.
Something seemed out of place about all of them.
What are they wearing? I wondered as I stared at them standing on the shore.
Looking down, I noticed that the boy was wearing something similar. Its peculiarity lay not just in how dated the clothing was, but in its cheaply looking material.
A man with unruly curly red hair dismounted from his horse and strode toward the river's edge. He wore what I could only imagine was some knock-off Robin Hood costume. It didn't help that he stood with his hands on his hips, water sloshing over his leather ankle boots, looking at us.
He turned and grabbed a rope from his horse, then called out to the others on horseback, who followed his lead. They tied the rope to the saddle of one of the horses and flung the other end toward me.
It slipped by the first time, but I caught it midair on the second attempt. He shouted out instructions that I couldn't make out, though I wasn't really trying hard to comprehend. I had already guessed what they wanted me to do with the rope, so I tied it around myself and the boy, then submerged back into the icy water with care.
The river immediately pulled us away, but the rope went taut around us, and I watched as the men led the horse away. The red-haired man and his men pulled on the rope as well, quickly extricating us from the dangerous waters.
As soon as our feet touched the rocky banks, a stocky man rushed and pulled the boy out of my arms. I couldn't understand the words that he was speaking, but I understood the tears that were streaming down his tanned cheeks. A little girl rushed forward, too. She was the only other child amongst the crowd. The rest must have been ushered back home in order to prevent another ordeal.
Pain started to register now. New pain that had momentarily overpowered the original pains. I felt the anabolic acid building up in my calves, and the stitch on my right side. I wasn't looking forward to when they all ganged up on me in the following days. But the pain wouldn't be subdued by my curiosity with the strangers standing before me.
The crowd was primarily composed of men. They sported trousers that ended at their ankles, paired with what looked like blouses, under vests made of leather or some other coarse material. Those who were atop the horses, though, were dressed slightly better, but just as peculiar-looking. They looked like they were dressed for a Renaissance Faire. Except for the redhead, who was the only one dressed as he was, clearly the main character.
Then it all clicked.
"You are LARPers." I choked out, a little too excited by the looks on their faces. "Or at least the actors they hired, right?" I asked, as they stared at me with expressions of confusion.
There was an exchange of wary glances between them and whispered conversations. No matter how much I strained, I couldn't hear it, and even if I had, I doubted I would understand whatever made-up language they were speaking.
"Listen, I am not a participant; you don't need to keep up the act. I just want to get home. Do any of you have a phone I can borrow?"
Nothing, just more confused stares. Then the red-haired man approached, but he didn't speak to me; instead, he turned to the father and son, who were reunited, and ignored me completely as he spoke to them.
They are really taking their roles seriously. And it pissed me off. Didn't they notice the state I was in?
A prickling, stinging sensation tore my attention from them and to my right hand instead. Blood was pooling at my feet. I pulled my hand close to inspect the damage. Luckily, it wasn't too deep to require stitches, but it would take several days of healing as long as I kept it clean.
I didn't consider myself to be a vindictive person by nature. But every cut, scrape, and bruise I acquired from this hazing ritual conjured vivid and delightful macabre images of how I would exact my revenge.
My fantasy was interrupted as the young girl approached and shyly extended her arms toward me. In her hands was a handkerchief, it was light brown with tiny white blossoms. When I didn't take it right away, she pointed to my right hand, the blood now trailing down my fingers toward my elbow, as I still held it up to my face.
"Thanks, do you have any antiseptic? I don't want to get an infection."
She just stared at me for a few seconds before turning and walking over to the father and son, who were still embracing.
Annoying, but impressive acting chops. I mused as I quickly went to work on cleaning my hand and stopping the bleeding.
This one is going to hurt if not treated.
The redhead approached me again. He looked like he was going to talk to me this time. He had a harsh attractiveness that was difficult to ignore. He was a head taller than most in his company, and his broad-shouldered silhouette cut an imposing figure against the orange glow of the setting sun. The features of his face were chiseled, exuding a rugged manliness that sent a surprising flutter through my stomach.
"Can you help me get home?" I asked him, my voice coming out barely more than a whisper. I cleared my throat; this was no time to get flustered. He's just some actor, I reminded myself. "Or show me to someone who can help?"
His smile was warm, contagious, making me feel an unanticipated flutter in the pit of my stomach despite everything. This wasn't the time or place for such sensations.
"Why aren't you saying anything?" I asked, frustration lacing my voice as he continued to just stare and smile.
"Nalūshi, evo," he finally said.
What the hell?
He was so good at playing the part that I would have applauded the commitment to staying in character if I weren't so pissed off.
He then turned and murmured something in that language I didn't understand to one of the other men. The man nodded and strode over to us. With a sigh of relief, I prepared myself to explain again when something stiff and rough coiled around my wrists.
"What is this? What are you doing!" I protested, struggling against the abrasive rope.