The Wrong Side of Reality

When he woke up, it was bright. Too bright. White light stabbed into his eyes. A ceiling fan spun above him, humming faintly. Chlorine burned in his nostrils. 

He was alive. Someone had pulled him out. 

His friend sat beside the bed, relief washing over his face the moment Al stirred. "Damn, man. You scared the hell out of me." 

Al swallowed, his throat raw. "What happened?" 

His friend scoffed. "You tell me. One minute you were fine, next minute you weren't coming back up. Lifeguard had to drag you out. You almost drowned." 

Drowned. 

Al's head throbbed. He remembered the water, the struggle. The voices. But something about the memory felt off—distorted, like watching a dream unravel. 

And something else. 

The council. The voices in his head were quiet. 

Except one. 

A whisper slithered through his thoughts. "You felt it, didn't you? The moment you let go? You were supposed to disappear." 

Al's blood ran cold.