The Abyss Surrounds Us by Emily Skrutskie
Authors: Emily Skrutskie
Tags: Paranormal, YA), Young Adult Fiction, Young Adult, teen, teen fiction, ya fiction, ya novel, young adult novel, Paranormal Fiction, teen novel, teen lit, abyss surrounds us, emily skrutsky, emily skruskie
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Iâm done being quiet and small and underestimated.
Maybe thatâs why I punch Swift.
She staggers backward, catching herself on the bed. My fist feels like itâs on fire, but itâs nothing compared to the sheer triumph that floods through my body. The imprint of my knuckles is rapidly fading from her cheek, but itâs there .
Of course she lunges, her hands slamming into my shoulders, throwing me against the half-open drawers. I wait for the next blow, but none comes. She hesitates, every part of her body held in tension, then crawls into bed and rolls over, facing the wall. Doesnât pull the blanket up over her, doesnât say anything. From a typhoon to stilled seas in the blink of an eye.
Adrenaline took me over for a second, but Iâm getting my body back bit by bit, in bruises and aches that I can feel forming everywhere. Out of options, I sit on the edge of the bed, testing to see if sheâll snap at me. But Swift is drawing long, slow breaths now, the kind that bring you teetering over the edge of falling asleep. My gaze lands on her Minnow tattoo peeking out from behind her uneven blonde hair, on the ink that marks her loyalty and what it means to her.
All of a sudden it strikes me: I wouldnât be here if it werenât for Swift. I wouldnât be alive if she hadnât held me back when I was ready to tackle Santa Elena. If she hadnât told the captain to bring me along. If she hadnât caught me as the pill was on my lips. If it werenât for her, one way or another Iâd be another bloated corpse staining the NeoPacific.
So when I lie back and roll onto my side, I decide Iâm not bunking back-to-back with the girl who kept me from sparing Durga or the girl who dragged me aboard the Minnow and threw me into a janitorial closet. Sheâs not the girl who slammed me into a wall a minute ago or the girl who called me a shoregirl like it was the height of insult.
Iâm just going to sleep next to the girl who saved my life.
8
The next morning, I wake up to the girl who saved my life shoving me out of her bed. âCaptain said youâre hatching the beast today, since youâre all rested up,â Swift grumbles, stepping over me as she staggers to her feet.
I prop myself up on my elbows, watching as she rummages through the drawers. Iâve got no earthly idea what time it is, apart from ânot night.â Thereâs no window in Swiftâs bunk, and it strikes me now that the janitorial closet might have been roomier.
When she strips off her shirt, I donât spare her the way she spared me. Her body is laced with scars, but thatâs not the only thing marking her skin. Inked across the bottom of her rib cage is a bird, its pointed wings curving down toward her hips, its head covered by the bottom edge of her bra. A swift.
Of course.
âSo did your mom give you that name, or did people just see your tattoo and start calling you that?â I ask.
âMom.â She says the word like itâs eggshells that sheâs dancing over. âNow quit staring, jackass,â she snaps, and throws her shirt in my face. âGet off the floor. Youâve got shit to do.â
Five minutes later, weâre jogging through the halls on the shipâs lowest level. Down here, the engines groan and grumble as if weâre passing through a giant metal heart, and the smell of saltwater winds through the air. The upper part of the Minnow is stitched together from mismatched pieces, the halls bleeding from metal to wood and plastic in a train wreck of bolts and glue. But down here, the comforts of the yacht parts melt away into the cold, industrial womb of a warship.
We round a corner and step through a hatch into what I should have known the ship possessed from the start. The Minnow already has a built-in trainer deck. There are two huge cutaways with roll-up doors on either side of the hull that open out to the ocean, and
Maybe thatâs why I punch Swift.
She staggers backward, catching herself on the bed. My fist feels like itâs on fire, but itâs nothing compared to the sheer triumph that floods through my body. The imprint of my knuckles is rapidly fading from her cheek, but itâs there .
Of course she lunges, her hands slamming into my shoulders, throwing me against the half-open drawers. I wait for the next blow, but none comes. She hesitates, every part of her body held in tension, then crawls into bed and rolls over, facing the wall. Doesnât pull the blanket up over her, doesnât say anything. From a typhoon to stilled seas in the blink of an eye.
Adrenaline took me over for a second, but Iâm getting my body back bit by bit, in bruises and aches that I can feel forming everywhere. Out of options, I sit on the edge of the bed, testing to see if sheâll snap at me. But Swift is drawing long, slow breaths now, the kind that bring you teetering over the edge of falling asleep. My gaze lands on her Minnow tattoo peeking out from behind her uneven blonde hair, on the ink that marks her loyalty and what it means to her.
All of a sudden it strikes me: I wouldnât be here if it werenât for Swift. I wouldnât be alive if she hadnât held me back when I was ready to tackle Santa Elena. If she hadnât told the captain to bring me along. If she hadnât caught me as the pill was on my lips. If it werenât for her, one way or another Iâd be another bloated corpse staining the NeoPacific.
So when I lie back and roll onto my side, I decide Iâm not bunking back-to-back with the girl who kept me from sparing Durga or the girl who dragged me aboard the Minnow and threw me into a janitorial closet. Sheâs not the girl who slammed me into a wall a minute ago or the girl who called me a shoregirl like it was the height of insult.
Iâm just going to sleep next to the girl who saved my life.
8
The next morning, I wake up to the girl who saved my life shoving me out of her bed. âCaptain said youâre hatching the beast today, since youâre all rested up,â Swift grumbles, stepping over me as she staggers to her feet.
I prop myself up on my elbows, watching as she rummages through the drawers. Iâve got no earthly idea what time it is, apart from ânot night.â Thereâs no window in Swiftâs bunk, and it strikes me now that the janitorial closet might have been roomier.
When she strips off her shirt, I donât spare her the way she spared me. Her body is laced with scars, but thatâs not the only thing marking her skin. Inked across the bottom of her rib cage is a bird, its pointed wings curving down toward her hips, its head covered by the bottom edge of her bra. A swift.
Of course.
âSo did your mom give you that name, or did people just see your tattoo and start calling you that?â I ask.
âMom.â She says the word like itâs eggshells that sheâs dancing over. âNow quit staring, jackass,â she snaps, and throws her shirt in my face. âGet off the floor. Youâve got shit to do.â
Five minutes later, weâre jogging through the halls on the shipâs lowest level. Down here, the engines groan and grumble as if weâre passing through a giant metal heart, and the smell of saltwater winds through the air. The upper part of the Minnow is stitched together from mismatched pieces, the halls bleeding from metal to wood and plastic in a train wreck of bolts and glue. But down here, the comforts of the yacht parts melt away into the cold, industrial womb of a warship.
We round a corner and step through a hatch into what I should have known the ship possessed from the start. The Minnow already has a built-in trainer deck. There are two huge cutaways with roll-up doors on either side of the hull that open out to the ocean, and
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