But before I could delight in this thought, the water exploded, and I was pulled from its clutches and hauled onto the side of the pool.
My eyes were full of water, my mouth gasping as my lungs burned, and it was a few seconds before I could open them, but when I did, he came into focus, the man who’d pulled me from the depths, who’d put an end to my demise.
He knelt beneath me, my body draped over him as if he were a large chair, dark trousers plastered to his skin. And as my eyes adjusted, I glanced up at his face and was convinced that I’d succeeded because this wasn’t a man at all, but an angel. He was beautiful. His face was a serene masterpiece made up of only the finest qualities, the likes of which I have never seen on this earth. Yes, he was an angel, and he had come to take me.
But then he turned, slowly, slightly, a fraction of a movement that distorted the light and the image of him. And my angel was gone, the smooth skin on the right-hand side of his face replaced with something else. Scars. Ugly, snaking scars roamed from his collar and clawed their way up his neck, touching the underside of his chin and almost making it up to his left eye, stopping before they took his sight.
The skin was mottled, distorted, nothing like an angel, and every bit the devil.
I pushed away from him.
And I saw it in his face, the acceptance of my reaction, for this was how it must always be for him. The response he was used to, because who wouldn’t look at him and not think he looked like a beast, his perfect portrait slashed down one side?
I could imagine people were afraid of him. But it wasn’t fear I felt. This wasn’t the reason I pushed back from him, a look of what he thought must have been horror upon my face.
No. I saw something else. A man who’d endured pain. A man who’d seen the worst. A man who was as scarred as I am, yet his scars were visible. A man who has been to hell and lived to tell the tale.
And he’d come to me, on the brink of death, as if fate had hand-delivered him.