save our souls

Vacation had been his idea. Consumed, overwhelmed, choked by pressures of their separate jobs, with the family, with the constant financial struggle. There was a bitter tension in their relationship. He could not define exactly when it had begun, it wasn't like something had happened between them. It was simply like adding water to a glass drop by drop. He feared, dreading the day when the final droplet would cause a flood.
Already, things had changed. Before, every dinner was special. They would eat their food side by side at the dark wooden table in the center of their kitchen. Laughing, smiling, lively, often romantic conversation passing warmly between them. Their hands would lightly touch under the table, their legs loosely entwined. Together they would clear the table, wash the dishes. A kiss here. The skin on her cheek soft to his lips. A kiss there. Her tender green eyes glisten as she leans towards him.
Now, dinnertime is just another task on the list to get through, just routine. They sit. They eat. Work has become a common topic that infects their once pleasant meals. Their legs, hands, eyes, now stay sober and to themselves.
He can't imagine a life without her. Time has welded, glued, bonded them together. Slowly, she became his second half, a part of him through and through. Some piece of her lives within him, and likewise, a chunk of him with her. He misses those moments before, when stress didn't plague their time together, when laughing came so easily, freely. This vacation was much needed.
She stands elegantly towards the front of the fast moving boat. Golden locks of hair fly behind her, dancing and twirling in the rush of air screaming past them. Her loose, long sleeve grey shirt is flattened against her chest, it billows behind her, fluttering, flapping against her back. He stands with his knees uncovered and bent, he watches her from behind, and grips a metal railing for support. Cautiously, he takes a step forward, wary of the motions of the boat. He reaches his hands towards her, now that he is in reachable distance, and wraps his arms about her waist. She feels his sudden touch, and she turns her head slightly towards him. The smile that stretches across her face is wide, and perfect. It's the kind of smile you would expect to see on the face of a successful model posing on the front of a fashion magazine. For a moment he forgets everything, the world has fallen away beside him and the only thing left is this perfect smile. It takes a minute for the world to slowly return, and his surroundings to come into focus.
Gradually she brings the boat to a stop, she turns to him, chest to chest. They face each other, the space between them dissolves to a sliver, until there is none, and he can feel her torso rise and fall with her breathing. The only sound is of the constant slap of miniature waves against the side of the boat. Occasionally, a fish will jump, leap, fling itself from the water into the air, only to fall back again, unseen, submerged in the swirling liquid once more. If you listen you can sometimes hear a bird call across the lake, each of their distinct and exotic voices echoing off the surrounding mountains.
Their faces tilt towards each other, his slightly down, hers up. Lips touch so gently. Tongues dance, tease, slide together. Mouths melding softly to one, the point that divides his from hers is lost. They haven't felt this coupled, this close since before. She now realizes how much she misses those days.
Their mouths separate, he holds her tightly, her head fits well against his chest. He kisses the top of her head delicately, her hair gives off a slightly sweet scent that fills his nose. There is no place he would rather be, nothing more perfect then this exact moment.
Minutes pass, neither want to move. Eventually, she sits, starts the boat it roars to life, gathering acceleration. They hop over the little waves; a spray of icy lake water shoots at them. She shouts and giggles, the sudden cold sending goose bumps across her skin. She increases their speed just a bit, there is a certain freedom in the wind that blows by them.
The shore where they originally entered the lake comes into view as a line of golden sand on the edge of the horizon. The sun has begun to dip in the sky, blue is fading out, and you can tell that flaming orange, red, yellow, and pink will immerge shortly. Neither is ready to leave. She turns her head to look at him, he stands just behind her. Their thoughts mirror one another.
"I don't wanna go yet." Her voice is quiet, threatening to break. She reminds him of a child who knows she is defeated, but pleas one last time for her way regardless. He is silent, unsure of how to respond. On one hand, he knows they should head back, on the other he wants to stay on the boat with her forever, to make her happy. He turns away from her and steps back.
Stress is a very funny thing. It can do so much damage to people. It can make you sick, make any and all parts of the body ache, it can cause migraines, ulcers, it can kill the brain, give us violent mood swings, cause delusions, it messes with our heads. Everyone has at least one stress related freak out in their life, usually many. So really, her freak out wasn't unusual or uncalled for, it was however, inconvenient.
As she was holding the controls for the boat steadily in her fingers, a thought, a realization suddenly slipped into her mind. It was like a mental tidal wave crushing down on her head. Work was coming, and she was going to have to go. She was going to have to sit in her itty bitty cubicle, deal with her stupid, thick headed boss, cope with the army of selfish coworkers who's goal in life was to make her miserable. So much to get done, and time seems to only slip away faster and faster. This vacation is only a tiny break and then things are going to go back to being exactly the way they were. I'm going to go back to suffering. This happiness is only temporary.
Already, she can feel the stress pushing down on her. Anger overcomes her, devours her joy. It pulses through her fingers, hands, arms, legs, even to her toes. The mere thought of returning to the bitter, restless, strained life that this vacation has temporarily concealed from memory, is overwhelming. Dread surfaces in the livid puddle of harsh emotion that pools within her mind. I am not going back. Ever. She grips the handles tighter, her knuckles fade to a ghostly white in the pressure.
He sees her abrupt change in body language, her entire form tense up, he moves towards her again. She feels his fingers touch sensitively to her shoulder. Boiling, boiling. Her temper threatens to gush, cascade over the brim of the little cup in which it rests. He wants to help, really, truly he does, reassuring her is not, however, an easy thing to do right now. Tears spill down her face uncontrollably, her eyes stay forward, focused she is somewhat embarrassed by this outburst. In his desperateness to mend the situation, and calm his wife, he resorts in humor, squeezing her side with his right hand. He is well aware of how excruciatingly ticklish she is in that exact spot. She squeals and slaps at him wildly. He evades her attempts at peeling his fingers away and continues to poke and jab at her, squealing turns to shrieking, she gasps for breath, her feet kick madly. Her right foot kicks. This simple action. Unintentional. Accidental. She strikes the gas pedal full force.
The boat blasts, shoots forward. She is thrown against the front of the boat, her shoulder hits the steering handle. Pain shoots needles through her arm and neck. He had been standing to her left close to the edge, with nothing to stop him from the plunge into icy water. There is a slight splash as he becomes submerged in the frigid, murky depths of the lake. Partially, it was bad timing. He fell off the boat just before she slammed against the steering. His head was barely under the water as the craft swerved, out of control, over him. It was also inconvenient that his head was positioned directly under the motor when it hit him. I guess, sometimes the forces that be just get mad.
It takes her several seconds to recover from the torturous tickle attack, and from being thrown against the boat, to stand and reorient herself. The boat lost the majority of its speed when she pulled her foot back off the gas pedal. Now it drifts along the water, mostly moved by the never-ending supply of tiny waves lapping against it. Her bruised shoulder aches, agonizingly. Her vision swims.
After a minute she will begin to look for her missing husband. She will turn to face the right edge of the boat, and gaze into the water. At first there will only be a hand. Floating innocently before her, immerging from beneath the vessel. Then his forearm, elbow, shoulder. Gradually his mangled corpse will appear, she will look on him in absolute, pure horror.
His pruning anatomy bathes in a pool of scarlet that glistens in the late sun. Held to the surface by a fluorescent orange life jacket, his head knocks repeatedly against the craft with the oncoming ripples. The side of his skull has been torn, ripped, shredded apart, most of his hair is caught in the engine. The flesh that once shielded his forehead hangs by a string of skin to his head. His cheek has a deep gash through it, stretching from his upper lip to his cheekbone. If one were to look at it they would be able to easily view his teeth, tongue, and gums. An ear gently distanced itself from his body, as the sea of waves carry it away.
The rest of his anatomy would appear to be in relatively good condition. His flesh is fairly saturated. Water flows freely in and out of his mouth and nose. Already, several fish have begun to nibble at his tasteful, lifeless corpse, their little mouths chewing quickly.
She will rock to and fro. Stunned. Shocked. Horrified. Sobbing uncontrollably, yet soundlessly. The boat sways delicately with her rocking, leaning under her weight. It is silent but for the cry of a bird, or the occasional jumping fish. Day has melted to evening.