My hair, long and black, floats around my head. My feet kick lazily, moving me steadily through the water. I don’t create bubbles. I don’t breathe. But I am alive, in a way.

This should not be possible. I should not be able to live my life in this way. Under the water. No air. No land. My body is human after all. But you know what? I’m not a human.

I’m a spirit. I could take the shape of anything I wanted. This decade I chose human.

Now, I’m not your ordinary spirit. I can’t fly or walk. All I can do is swim. I must stay in the water or else I will cease to be. What is left of my essence will blow away in the wind and I will be sent off to live in the after life where a normal dead person would end up if they chose not to stay in the human world.

So the water is my home. It is where I wander. It is where I observe. There isn’t much to be honest. There are fish a plenty. The occasional SCUBA diver. I have even seen a submarine or two.

But none of this interests me.

Seeing the pain on the faces of drowning people—specifically men—brings me pleasure because when I was alive I couldn’t do it myself.

I had been weak. All I inflicted was drooling men and boners. And I drew attention from sometimes the wrong sort. For example, the night I died.

There’s a disturbance in the flow of the water ahead of me. Someone has fallen in it seems or some of the larger fish have gotten into a brawl of sorts. They are always doing that.

But no. A few fathoms in front of me and close to the surface I see the body. It’s a human man. A fisherman maybe. I honestly don’t care.

He’s sinking, sinking, sinking...

He’s level with me now, but still far in front of me.

Is he conscious?

Can he see me?

I’ve come across a few drowning people who have stared wide eyed at me before they finally succumbed to the water streaming into their lungs.

The man is facing me now. His eyes are open.

Has he seen me yet?

No, he hasn’t. His eyes are crossed, looking up. It’s like he’s in shock that he’s under the water. His body is mostly still apart from the usual arm or leg randomly floating outward.

I like it this way. When they struggle, it takes away from their beauty. The image of a body floating silently and peacefully downward toward the ocean floor to most likely stay forever, that is what I think beauty is.

I realize that I’m still steadily moving through the water, in the man’s direction.

I’m coming closer, closer...

It’s a miracle he hasn’t seen me yet.

Since I have nothing better to do, I take a closer look at this particular, unfortunate victim. He's handsome, sure. I would have gone for him immediately when I was alive. But it wouldn't turn out well. I can see by just the way he looks. He would have taken advantage of me. He looks like the typical football player. He even has the school jacket to prove it. The jacket weighs him down along with his tight fitting jeans.

They never learn. You never wear heavy clothing when you're near the water. It's always a person's downfall.

Then, the man's arm reaches out. Why is he reaching out? He sees me, that's why. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out are bubbles, though I know what he is trying to say.

Help.

Now he begins to panic, his feet kicking, trying to propel himself toward the surface. Too bad he's too far down. We must be more than 75 fathoms below.

Talking, or his attempt at it, seems to have depleted some of his meager air supply, but that doesn't stop him from trying again.

Please. Help.

And you know what I do?

I let him fall.

What else can I do?

I'm a spirit after all.