Mermaid

by Allison Field Bell
Mermaid by Allison Field Bell

I’m seventeen. At a house party. My friend Emily’s. It’s Halloween. No parents. Sticky shots of rum on the counter. Glitter like rain falling: Think Happy Thoughts. 

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I’m seventeen. At a house party. My friend Emily’s. It’s Halloween. No parents. Sticky shots of rum on the counter. Glitter like rain falling: Think Happy Thoughts. Then: water. I stay in water all night—between hot tub and pool, tiptoeing across the deck, my wings dripping down my back.  

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I’m seventeen. At a house party. My friend Emily’s. It’s Halloween. No parents. Sticky shots of rum on the counter, glitter like rain falling. Think Happy Thoughts. Then: water. I stay in water all night—between hot tub and pool, tiptoeing across the deck, my wings dripping down my back. My body: the pale blue cotton shirt and the sparkling tights, the feeling of them wet and clinging to me like a new layer of skin.  

—

I’m seventeen. At a house party. My friend Emily’s. It’s Halloween. No parents. Sticky shots of rum on the counter, glitter like rain falling. Think Happy Thoughts. Then: water. I stay in water all night—between hot tub and pool, tiptoeing across the deck, my wings dripping down my back. My body: the pale blue cotton shirt and the sparkling tights, the feeling of them wet and clinging to me like a new layer of skin. Later, with most people gone, I pull the cover over me and just float there in the dark. 

—

I’m seventeen. At a house party. My friend Emily’s. It’s Halloween. No parents. Sticky shots of rum on the counter, glitter like rain falling. Think Happy Thoughts. Then: water. I stay in water all night—between hot tub and pool, tiptoeing across the deck, my wings dripping down my back. My body: the pale blue cotton shirt and the sparkling tights, the feeling of them wet and clinging to me like a new layer of skin. Later, with most people gone, I pull the cover over me and just float there in the dark. I grow dizzy. I can’t remember where I am—home maybe, under blankets, slipping off to sleep.  

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I’m seventeen. At a house party. My friend Emily’s. It’s Halloween. No parents. Shots of rum. Glitter like rain. I’m in the hot tub. I can’t remember where I am. It isn’t drowning.  

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I’m seventeen. At a house party. I’m in the hot tub. My face just breaks the water’s surface. This dark hot cage. Silent except for the sound of my own blood. Peaceful. Womb-like.  

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I’m seventeen. And maybe I’m trying to suffocate.  

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I’m seventeen. At a house party. My friend Emily’s. Rum. Glitter like rain. I’m drunk. There’s that. Drunk people doing drunk things. Hot tub wombs. Think Happy Thoughts. 

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 I’m seventeen. There are people beyond the hot tub, friends. I’m drunk. Wings suspended in the water at my back. Also beyond the hot tub is a feeling I cannot control. Something in the gut or built into the bones. Something akin to sadness. There is no good way to write about it. 

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I’m seventeen. At a house party. My friend Emily’s. It’s Halloween. No parents. My body: the shirt, tights, the feeling like a new layer of skin. I’m in the hot tub. This dark hot cage. 

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 I’m seventeen. At a house party. I’m drunk. Glitter falling. I’m in the hot tub. I’m wondering about sleep. Silent except for blood. Sticky shots. Peaceful.  

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I’m seventeen. I’m in the hot tub. I’m drunk. At a house party. Beyond the house and in the house and beyond the hot tub and in it too: that feeling. 

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 I’m seventeen. I’m drunk. Later I won’t know what to call this. Built into the bones. Have you ever tried to….? No, I’ll say. Never.   

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I’m seventeen. A new layer of skin. Not really, I’ll say. I was seventeen, I’ll say. And no, no, I don’t think so.  

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I’m seventeen. At a house party. My friend Emily’s. It’s Halloween. No parents. I’m in the hot tub, and then suddenly I’m no longer in the hot tub. A boy has his arms around me, is pulling me out. I struggle against him. No, I say. Leave me alone, I say.  

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I’m seventeen. Glitter. Shots. Drunk and out of the hot tub. Some boy is maybe my hero. Another boy is asking if I’m okay. Yes, yes. I’m drunk. Halloween. I’m Tinker Bell.  

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I’m seventeen. At a house party. Emily’s. Halloween. No parents. Hot tub. Glitter. Shots. Skin. Hero. Never.    

Allison Field Bell is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Utah, and she has an MFA in Fiction from New Mexico State University. She is the author of the poetry chapbook, Without Woman or Body, forthcoming 2025 from Finishing Line Press and the creative nonfiction chapbook, Edge of the Sea, forthcoming 2025 from CutBank Books. Allison's prose appears or is forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly, DIAGRAM, The Gettysburg Review, CRAFT, The Adroit Journal, Alaska Quarterly Review, West Branch, and elsewhere. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in The Cincinnati Review, Passages North, Palette Poetry, RHINO Poetry, The Greensboro Review, THRUSH Poetry Journal and elsewhere. Find her at allisonfieldbell.com.