Depths of Her Own Making
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 3,312
There’s a weight, like drowning, pressing against my chest, heavy and unrelenting. But it’s not the water pulling me under—it’s him.
His words hang in the air long after he’s gone, lingering like smoke that’s seeped into every corner of the room. I can still hear his voice, sharp and biting, telling me I’m not enough, that I’m selfish, that I wouldn’t last a day without him. It’s a script he’s perfected over the years, each line carefully crafted to chip away at the edges of me until I barely recognize what’s left.
It’s not just his voice. It’s his presence, the way he moves through a room and rearranges the air, making it thinner, harder to breathe. The way his footsteps fall heavy against the floorboards, a reminder that no matter where I go, he’s there, pulling me back, dragging me under.
I think about it often, this weight. It’s not physical, but it’s tangible in the way my shoulders ache from carrying it. It’s the look in his eyes when I try to speak my mind, the smirk that says You’ll never escape this.
But there’s something else now. A flicker of defiance. It started small, like the faintest glimmer of sunlight breaking through the surface of the water. At first, I barely noticed it, too consumed by the darkness to see anything else. But now, it’s growing.
I feel it when I put my hand on my belly, the life stirring inside me like a current I can’t ignore. It’s a reminder that this isn’t just about him anymore. It’s about me, about what I can endure, about the shore that I know is somewhere out there, waiting for me to find it.
The weight is still there, pressing against me, threatening to pull me back under. But for the first time, I can see a way out. And as terrifying as it is to think about swimming alone, I know I’d rather face the unknown than stay anchored to him forever.
It’s not the water that will drown me. It’s him. And I refuse to let him win.
***
The clinic lights buzzed faintly, sterile and cold. Cindy sat on the examination table, her fingers worrying the edges of the thin paper gown. Her belly, still just a whisper of a curve, felt like an anchor she hadn’t asked for.
“I need you to be sure.” he had said, his hands gripping the back of the kitchen chair, knuckles white against the peeling paint. “You can’t just… decide something like this.”
Deciding had been a privilege stripped from her long ago. They’d been together four years, and in that time, her voice had become a soft murmur, distorted and nearly inaudible. Dylan didn’t like loud opinions, so she swallowed hers. He didn’t like confrontation, so she learned to fold into herself.
“Congratulations,” the doctor said with a practiced smile, handing over a printout of grainy black-and-white shapes. “Everything looks healthy so far.”
Healthy. As if she were a vessel for someone else’s life. A submarine navigating uncharted waters, silently housing this tiny, forming person while her own desires sank further into the abyss.
***
The pregnancy wasn’t planned. It was an accident, a crack in the brittle structure of her life with Dylan. He called it her decision, though he never really meant it. Every time she tried to bring up the subject of choices, he silenced her with the same condescending line: “Good mothers don’t think about those things.” His words clung to her like seaweed, slimy and suffocating, wrapping around her until she couldn’t tell where his judgment ended and her own doubts began.
By the second trimester, Cindy’s body became a stranger to her. Her joints groaned like rusted hinges, and her skin felt stretched so tightly she feared it might tear. Her belly swelled, marking her as someone different, someone tethered to an unknown future. Sleep became elusive, and when it came, it brought dreams of water. In those dreams, she floated on an endless, dark ocean, her body weightless but tied to a thin, unbreakable cord—the life growing inside her. The cord was both an anchor and a lifeline, holding her above the abyss but reminding her how easily she could be pulled under.
Dylan didn’t notice her unraveling. Or maybe he did and didn’t care. Their fights grew more venomous, erupting over everything from the temperature of the room to the prenatal vitamins she bought on sale. “Do you really need those?” he’d snapped one evening, his voice dripping with irritation. “Maybe if you stopped wasting money, we’d have some for the kid when it gets here.”
That night, after he fell asleep, Cindy slipped out of bed and onto the small balcony that stuck out from their cramped apartment. The air was cold and sharp against her skin, the city sprawled out below her like a glittering, disjointed map. The moon hung full and heavy in the sky, casting silver ripples across the buildings, turning the world into a monochrome reflection of itself.
She stepped closer to the edge, her bare feet brushing against the metal railing. She gripped it with trembling hands, her heart pounding as her mind raced with thoughts she dared not say aloud.
“If I jumped,” she thought, staring down at the lights blinking far below, “would I sink fast enough that it wouldn’t matter? Would it all just… stop?”
The cold metal bit into her palms, grounding her, but the weight in her chest was heavier than ever. She leaned forward slightly, just enough to feel the pull of gravity.
Then it happened—a sharp, sudden kick, strong enough to make her gasp. She froze, her hands flying to her belly. The baby.
Her lips parted as tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks and catching on the corners of her mouth. It wasn’t just her life; it was theirs. This small, unseen force inside her—resilient, alive, insistent—was tied to her, just as much as she was to it.
In that moment, something shifted deep within her, like a faint ember catching fire. It wasn’t hope, not yet, but it was rebellion—a quiet, persistent whisper that maybe she wasn’t just a vessel, a submarine meant to carry and protect while sinking herself.
Cindy stepped back from the edge, her hands still pressed to her belly. She stared at the moonlit skyline, her breath steadying. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or even the next hour, but for now, she knew one thing: she would fight. For herself. For the baby. For the chance to surface, no matter how far she had to swim.
***
Dylan didn’t notice the subtle ways Cindy began to push back. He was too absorbed in his own world, too busy complaining about her perceived shortcomings to see the quiet rebellion brewing beneath the surface. She stopped cooking his meals, claiming nausea with a faint shrug. “The smell of meat makes me gag,” she’d say, even though she secretly relished the simplicity of making a bowl of cereal for herself instead.
She started locking the bathroom door—a small but seismic shift. Inside, she found refuge in long, steaming baths, the water soothing her aching body. She brought books with her, losing herself in tales of the ocean and its mysterious inhabitants: giant squid with tentacles that stretched for meters, bioluminescent fish glowing softly in the inky depths, and strange creatures that thrived under crushing pressure.
When Dylan grumbled about her extended absences or the rising water bill, she would emerge, towel wrapped tightly around her, offering him a faint smile that was more challenge than apology. “I’m growing a person, Dylan. What are you growing?”
His scoff was predictable, but Cindy found that she no longer cared. His jabs slid off her now, as if the water had made her skin impenetrable.
Her therapist, a soft-spoken woman with kind eyes named Dr. Fisher, suggested journaling as a way to process her thoughts. “Write whatever comes to mind,” Dr. Fisher had said during their first session. “There’s no right or wrong, Cindy. Just let it flow.”
So Cindy wrote. She filled pages with metaphors of water, her pen carving out a secret language she hadn’t known she possessed. She wrote about drowning, yes, about the weight of the ocean pressing down on her, but also about survival. About the strength it took to navigate unpredictable currents and the resilience of creatures who lived in the darkness, unseen but undeterred.
One afternoon, as rain drummed softly against the window of her apartment, she wrote something that stopped her in her tracks:
A submarine is both confinement and protection. It carries its precious cargo through depths no one else can see. But what happens when the captain wants to abandon ship?
Her hand hovered over the page, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. For months, she had felt like a vessel—trapped, used, her own needs buried beneath the weight of expectation. But a captain wasn’t just a figurehead. A captain had control. A captain could chart a new course, even if it meant braving unknown waters.
She closed the journal and placed her hands on her belly, feeling the faint flutter of life inside.
“I’m still here,” she whispered, her voice steady. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m steering us out.”
The words felt like a declaration, a promise to herself and the life she was carrying. Cindy knew it wouldn’t be easy. Dylan would fight to keep her submerged, to drag her back into the depths of his control. But she also knew something else: she wasn’t just a submarine anymore. She was the captain. And she was ready to surface.
***
By her eighth month, Cindy was unrecognizable—not because of her swollen belly, but because of the steel in her gaze. She began speaking her mind in clipped, pointed sentences that left Dylan floundering.
“You’ve changed,” he muttered one night after she refused to let him dictate the baby’s name. His voice was low, edged with a bitterness she hadn’t heard before. He stood in the doorway, his hand gripping the keys so tightly they left faint indentations in his palm.
Cindy didn’t flinch. “Maybe I have,” she said, her voice steady but quiet, like the calm before a storm. She leaned back against the kitchen counter, one hand resting protectively on her belly. “Or maybe I’ve just stopped letting you decide who I’m supposed to be.”
Dylan’s jaw tightened, his lips pulling into a thin line. “This isn’t you,” he said, shaking his head as though trying to dislodge the image of the woman standing before him. “You’re acting like—”
“Like what?” she cut in, her tone sharp. “Like I have a mind of my own? Like I don’t have to bend over backward to keep the peace?”
For a moment, the only sound between them was the ticking of the wall clock. Dylan’s eyes darted toward it, then back to her, the frustration in his face mingling with something else. Uncertainty, maybe.
“I’m going out,” he said finally, his voice cold and clipped. He shoved the keys into his pocket, the metal jangling. “Don’t wait up.”
He turned and strode to the door, slamming it behind him with a force that rattled the picture frames on the walls.
Cindy exhaled slowly, her chest tight but steady. She glanced at the vibrating frames, the photos within them—old memories of a woman who once thought silence was strength.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered to the empty room, her hand sliding down to rest firmly on her belly. “I stopped waiting a long time ago,” she replied.
***
On a rainy Tuesday, the kind of day where the gray clouds seemed to stretch endlessly, Cindy packed a bag while Dylan was at work. The sound of the rain pattering against the window mixed with the hum of the radiator, filling the silence of the apartment.
She moved quietly, her movements deliberate. A sweater she hadn’t worn in years, her favorite book with the cracked spine, and a stuffed rabbit she’d already decided would belong to the baby—all folded neatly into the worn duffel bag. Her breath caught when she picked up the ultrasound picture from the counter. She stared at it for a moment, tracing the curve of the blurry, unformed figure with her thumb.
“This is for you,” she murmured, her voice steady but soft, as if the baby could hear her through the noise of the rain and the static of her thoughts.
On the counter, she left a note written on the back of an old grocery list:
I’m taking the submarine to shore. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready.
The words felt strange, almost too poetic for the sharp, bitter truth of what they meant, but they were hers, and that was enough. She placed the note beside the empty coffee mug Dylan had left that morning and zipped the bag with a finality that made her stomach swirl.
By the time Dylan came home, the apartment was empty except for the furniture and the lingering scent of her lavender shampoo.
***
Cindy’s new place wasn’t much—just a cramped one-bedroom with peeling wallpaper and a faint musty smell that even the rain couldn’t wash away. The radiator clanged like it was alive, and the water pressure in the shower was more trickle than stream, but the windows overlooked the river.
At night, she would sit on the couch that came with the place, her hands resting on her belly as she watched the rain create ripples on the water. The river wasn’t beautiful, not really. Its surface was dark, murky, littered with stray branches and the occasional shimmer of headlights from passing cars. But it moved. It flowed.
And for the first time in years, Cindy felt like she could breathe.
She didn’t have to answer to anyone. There was no one to question her silences, to twist her words into something she didn’t mean, to demand pieces of her she no longer wanted to give. The space was hers, the stillness hers.
The baby kicked as if to remind her she wasn’t truly alone. Cindy smiled faintly, pressing her hand against the tiny movement.
“Just us now,” she whispered. “And that’s more than enough.”
***
Labor came like a storm, fierce and unrelenting, tearing through Cindy’s body with no mercy. The sterile hospital room was silent except for the rhythm of the monitor and the occasional encouragement from the nurse, but it felt huge, echoing with her gasps and cries. Each contraction was a wave, crashing into her with brutal force, dragging her further into pain and exhaustion.
She gripped the sides of the bed, her knuckles pale, tears streaming down her face. She wanted to scream for someone to help, to take over, to make it stop. But there was no one. Dylan was gone, and even if he were here, he would’ve been useless. This was her fight, hers alone.
The nurse’s voice broke through the haze. “You’re almost there. Just one more push.”
Cindy didn’t believe her. She didn’t believe the pain could end, that she could survive it. But then she thought of the tiny life inside her, waiting to surface. She closed her eyes and pushed with everything she had, her scream ripping through the room like thunder.
And then, suddenly, it was over.
The baby’s cries filled the room, piercing and raw, and Cindy collapsed back against the pillows, gasping for air. Her body felt broken, her mind foggy, but the sound of that wail was like an anchor pulling her back from the edge.
The nurse carefully placed the baby in Cindy’s trembling arms. She looked down, and the world seemed to tilt.
Tiny hands, impossibly small fingers, a red face scrunched with the effort of life. Cindy’s tears came in a rush, hot and unstoppable. “You’re here,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “You’re really here.”
The baby quieted, its cries fading into soft, rhythmic breaths. Cindy touched its cheek, marveling at the warmth, the softness. For a moment, everything else fell away—the hospital, the storm of labor, even the years of fear and doubt. All that existed was this fragile, miraculous life in her arms.
But then the baby opened its eyes.
Cindy froze, her breath catching in her throat. The eyes weren’t the soft, cloudy blue of a newborn. They were black, bottomless, reflective like the ocean at night. She stared, unable to look away, as if the baby’s gaze was pulling her in, showing her something she couldn’t comprehend.
It wasn’t frightening—not exactly. But it was overwhelming, as though those eyes carried the weight of something ancient, something vast. Cindy felt small, insignificant, like a speck of dust floating above an infinite abyss.
And then, impossibly, the baby smiled.
It wasn’t the reflexive pout of a newborn. It was deliberate, knowing, almost... amused. The corners of its tiny mouth curled up, and for a split second, Cindy thought she saw something in the reflection of its eyes—a vast expanse of water, dark and rippling under an unseen moon.
Her hands trembled as she held the baby tighter, her heart pounding. “You’re... different,” she whispered, the words barely audible.
The baby cooed softly, its tiny fingers curling around hers. In that moment, Cindy felt something shift deep within her. The fear that had clung to her for months, the doubt that had weighed her down—it all began to dissolve.
The baby’s black eyes blinked, and for the first time in what felt like years, Cindy didn’t feel like she was sinking. She felt like she was floating, weightless, drifting toward something she couldn’t yet name.
***
Cindy’s journey was one of reclamation. For so long, she had been adrift, a submarine submerged in someone else’s world, carrying burdens that weren’t hers to bear. She had been a vessel—an uncomplaining protector, a silent carrier of life and expectations. But now, as she cradled the baby in her arms, she felt something shift.
She wasn’t just the submarine anymore; she was the captain. The map of her life had been blank for so long, uncharted waters stretching endlessly before her, but now she gripped the wheel with steady hands. She had no guarantees, no promises of calm seas, but she also knew something else: even the deepest oceans couldn’t drown her.
In the quiet moments, as she rocked the baby to sleep in her small apartment overlooking the river, Cindy often found her thoughts circling back to that first smile. The way it had curled up at the corners, so deliberate, so knowing. It stayed with her, haunting and comforting in equal measure.
Perhaps, she thought, it wasn’t just a child she had carried for nine months. Perhaps it was a part of herself—something she had buried long ago. The baby’s existence felt like a mirror held up to her soul, reflecting not just her fears but her strength, her resilience.
Every coo, every tiny stretch of the baby’s hand felt like a message: You made it. You surfaced.
Cindy wasn’t naive. The waters ahead would still be rough—late nights, unanswered questions, the weight of single motherhood pressing on her shoulders. But she also felt something she hadn’t in years: hope.
There was a quiet power in knowing she had made it this far. The baby wasn’t just her child; it was a symbol of rebirth. She had faced the storm, braved the depths, and emerged not as the woman Dylan had tried to mold, but as someone entirely her own.
She was reborn, strong, and ready to swim. And thìs time, she wasn’t afraid of the water.
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