The weight isn't new, it's as familiar as breath, settled into my bones. It's too much, too deep, too loud, too heavy, it has me clutching my chest, gasping. I pretend, go through each day as if I'm not drowning, as if I don't feel the sharp sting of cold metal curling 'round my feet, as if I don't hear the voice, calm, calculated, programmed to attract. I know things. I know I'm drowning. I feel the circles around my neck. I know it isn't water. I know it's red, it's thick, I know it contains things I cannot take back, things I remember vividly.