I just wanted to listen to eighteenth-century music and solve obscure math equations. Maybe lie in some flower fields during the summer and swim in a warm lake. Marry Carl Gauss and bear his children in the afterlife.
Is that really too much to ask for?
After partially waterboarding myself, I crawled out of the shower on all fours like a wounded animal and collapsed naked into the bed. I pulled the thick cover up over my head until I was cocooned in darkness.
The dreams came quickly.
The devil stood at the end of my bed staring at me with glowing crimson eyes. He touched my ankle and morphed into two skeletal monsters that whispered darkly. The foreign curiosity was tinged with mania. The devil wanted to know more about me.
“Why are you lying about who you really are?” he asked.
I woke up screaming, clutching at my chest.
Sanity was slipping away from me.
The Ionian Sea sparkled mockingly picturesque outside, and nature sounds washed over me peacefully.
Blessedly, I was all alone.
Hours passed, and my mentors didn’t make an appearance, but I could hear Patro’s voice all day as he talked with Kharon (the devil) somewhere in the house.
Grateful for the time alone to contemplate my impending doom, I spent the hours slowly eating small portions of food from the kitchen, floating in the tranquil sea, and chatting with Nyx.
Every few hours, I took a scalding shower and scrubbed myself raw.
Sometimes I cried in the water, sometimes I laughed, and once (three separate times) I flipped my curls over so I looked like a founding father and pretended to give a revolutionary speech—but each time my speech wastoogood (the town sheriff shot me for insurrection and I flailed dramatically in the shower—died—while my fellow rebels watched in horror).
During the day, the feminine urge to lead a fictional revolt plagued me.
At night, nightmares once again tore me to pieces.
It was always glowing crimson eyes and a man watching me cruelly. He touched my leg possessively, and again I felt foreign emotion: compulsion to watch, fascination, a dark obsession.
When I woke up the next morning, the cycle repeated.
I cautiously ate food; sang a depressing song that I made up on the spot, extremely off-key; lay face first in the sea and half-heartedly tried to drown; told Nyx in detail the plot of my favorite Emmy andCarl fanfic (yes, they whispered calculus problems to each other while riding off into the sunset... on each other); took another shower and fell asleep in it; woke up and chugged ice water; hummed Mozart’s Symphony no. 41 until my throat burned; then took another shower because I still couldn’t believe how luxurious it felt.
Yet, for all my rest (three showers in a row), the pounding ache in my head didn’t abate, and it still hurt to walk.
I tried to think about the Riemann Hypothesis, but it felt like I was soiling it contemplating it in my sorry state, so I gave up.
Later that night, my stomachburnedwith pain, and I sobbed because I was convinced I was dying from stress ulcers.
It was just cramps from eating too much food.
But the metaphysical pain persisted.
The strange grunts and knocking, squeaking noises that echoed against the wall all night didn’t help my mental state.
As it was, I woke up the last day before hell with a renewed purpose in life—I need to off myself before they send me back to that wretched place.
I ran into the sea dramatically.
Five minutes later, I floated on my back in the warm water with my eyes closed because I couldn’t bear to look at the glorious nature.
The sea is my favorite place on earth. I wish Charlie could be here to see it.
August on a Greek island felt like a dream within a nightmare.
