I’m cold. I’m bleeding. I’m alone. The water settles around my shoulders, but still resists me when I try to move. Carefully, I untie one of my arms from around the tree I latched onto. Pain rifles through my body as I unhook my arm and I realise that it’s only now, after bracing the rip tide, just how tightly I held the tree. I know before I see that the bark has dug deeply into my forearm, and from those deep cuts oozes blood. I don’t feel it too much though, only the faint red lines being drawn down my arm. The pain is momentary, the cold is what immobilises my body. All I know is that the water is no longer trying to drag me down. I unhook my second arm from the tree and wince at the removal of the pressure. The cuts and bruises mirror my other arm. My feet steady on the submerged road and I finally am able to look around at the destruction. Whenever you think about the sinking of Atlantis it seems like such a peaceful transition. But once the wave broke over the beach, the town turned into a panic, and it ripped apart. I can’t remember most of what happened. I was standing in the middle of the street searching for some old church when I was swept away. My head must have collided with a car or the remains of a building. Next thing I knew was that I was being dragged down the road, my life fleeting with every wrecked building I pass. But then I saw it, my one chance. The lone tree which hadn’t collapsed. With strength mustered from a place I didn’t know existed, I angled myself towards the tree and when the moment came, I wrapped my arms around the tree and refused to let go. My head aches, I can feel blood drip down my eye and when I raise my hand to apply pressure I see a rip on the back of my hand. Parts of poorly constructed buildings have collapsed in the panic, some people luckily found stable high ground, I imagine others weren’t so lucky in their choice of roof. I look across the water and can’t see another person, at least not another living one. The world is coming back into tune. The water is muddy and filled with fallen bricks, displaced cars and drowned bodies. Where is she? My eyes fly over the water searching for a sign of her. Of who? Her. What’s her name? Why can’t I remember who she is? Come on, think. Pain splits my skull, I can’t think. I struggle through the water, trying to navigate back to the church I was trying to get to before. She was with me. I think she ran ahead. Maybe she made it inside? All the streets have turned into canals of chaos. Each one looks like the last, and none of them lead to where I want to go. I turn behind the tree which saved my life and start making my way back. Using whatever strength hasn’t been drained from my arms I push through the water. My blood swirls beneath my arms and I feel a continuous pain akin to sterilisation, but the water isn’t clean and medicinal, but dark and deadly. My teeth batter together, but with each step I can feel more and more of my body. Why can’t I think? Every time I try to remember, a sharp pain stops me. Passing the corner of a street I witness a young boy stranded on an unstable clatter of metal roofing. He looks so scared, his face is red and tears stain his face, not to mention his wailing. Across the water, atop a building two stories higher than the flood, stands a mother screaming a boy’s name. And when that name is heard the boy whines a single word, ‘Mama.’ I need to find her. But who is she? I need to help this little boy. I don’t know why I obstruct my mission for this child. Is it out of pure kindness? Maybe, but it’s more than that. As I pick up the little boy a familiarity settles in. I hold him gently and curl him to my chest and shoulder. He’s heavier than I expected, or perhaps the tragedy has weakened me. I slip through an open window and for the first time I have to hold my own body weight. I crumble immediately. My shorts have rips over them and blood stains my skin; they can barely hold me up. But I need to reunite the boy with his mother. So I strain up the staircase and fall to my knees on the roof. ‘Mama!’ the little boy yells and frees himself from my grasp. ‘Billy!’ I don’t see what happens, I’m too exhausted to look. But I hear their love and the mother’s thankfulness. But I can’t stay, I need to find her. I wobble back into the water and search every street for the church. I turn each way, but all I see is death. Then is comes into view, the stone structure, half underwater, but standing firm. She has to be there. But who is she? I go to the gate and try to haul it open, but it won’t budge. At least it’s safe. Think. Think. Think. Name. Name. What’s her name? Who is she? Mary. The name crashes into me like a tsunami. A pink backpack floats on the water, and attached to that bag is a little girl. Mary. My little girl. My heart jumps into my throat as I slowly wade towards the body. It can’t be her. She’s safe. She has to be safe. I lay a hand gently on her shoulder and turn her over. It’s her. Mary’s lifeless body floats in front of me and I can’t do anything about it. The tsunami claimed my heart.