My fishing boat rocks and sways in sways in the dark tumult of the storm, threatening to cast me into the wine-dark, rolling sea, but that is the least of my worries.

It is still out there. It is still preying.

I stand on the bow of my ship- I am anchored, for now, though my boat still sways and rocks, the floor beneath me as unsteady as my racing heart. A smarter sailor than I would have taken cover beneath the deck, though a smarter sailor than I would not have sailed into the storm in the first place. A smarter sailor than I would not seek out the dark things that lurk in the dredges.

But I have no choice but to.

In one hand, I hold a kerosene lantern. It does little to illuminate my surroundings, casting its warm, flickering light only to the raindrops fleeting past it. Even as I hold onto its wire-thin handle for life it betrays me, rattling in the wind, hitting against my wrist so many times I can feel the bruise starting to morph into a laceration. Yet I cannot let it go. If I let this light go out, I will be cast into complete darkness, for my boat’s lights have already burnt out. I will plunge into the abyssal darkness of water and noise and salt on the air, unable to tell if I am above or below water. I will drown in it, and I cannot let that happen. Not until my work is done.

My other hand holds the cold, wet, metal railing of my boat. I hold onto it, because if I didn’t, the sheer force at which my boat is moving would send me flying backwards- or worse, forwards into the pitch. This hand that holds the railing serves a purpose even more important than the one that holds my lantern- light is necessary for survival, holding on is survival. I rock, back and forth, with the rolling of the waves, I crouch my legs to better balance myself. On my back is my harpoon, and I am in want of a third arm to hold it in. If it weren’t for the necessity of light and stability I would, but something must always be sacrificed. Here, I sacrifice my defense for survival, in hopes that my reflexes will be quick enough to suffice for preparation.

Thunder cracks, the sea rises, and I am keeled forward, my stomach pressed against the railing I so desperately cling to. Briefly, I am met with nothing but sea- my lantern cannot illuminate the pitch that so closely swallows me. It is infinite, consuming, treacherous. It wants me dead. Just as swiftly as my sights were plunged down, I am once again lifted up as the waves thrash the hull of my boat, yet my sights do not leave the surf.

I know you are out there. I think, because my voice will not carry over the roaring of the waves. Come and find me.

That which I seek is a creature of depth, one that does not surface for bait or siren. Yet it is as out of its depth as I am, and a creature in unfamiliar waters is likely to take easy prey. I am the prey, I am the sitting duck that it prowls around. I have seen its dark shadow in calmer waters. I have heard the whining clicks and keels of its pain. I have, only once, pierced its scaled flesh and seen the crimson clouds it leaves in wake. And yet I know it will return to me. I, who is so easy a target, am also a trap. I, who waits in the nightstorm, will be its end.

THUD!

The boat trembles, and the sound is too harsh and sudden to be uproar from the waves. I am in too deep and distant waters for it to be a rock, and my boat is anchored. I know what caused that sound. I know, with even more certainty, when I hear it clawing up the metal hull. It surfaces, with a white-clawed hand gripping the railing, mere inches from my own. I revolt, pushing myself back from the railing, steadying myself on the unsteady ground. My now-free hand finds my harpoon. I ready myself.

In heaving, breathlike motions it pulls itself up from the dredge of night, and climbs from the railing to the bow of my boat. The dim light of my flickering lantern illuminates its grotesqueries- fish formed in mockery of the human shape. It has scales, and gills, and fins lining its limbs. It stands on two limbre legs, almost a foot over me in height, body all taught muscle and scarred flesh. Its lure illuminates its face in harsh detail my lantern could not- snarling teeth, flat nostrils, the open wound where its left eye once was. It hates me nearly as much as I hate it. My father’s blood still stains its long, white hair.

It lunges at me.

I can see the motion coming before it happens- I dodge backwards as quickly as I can, my face narrowly missing its claws. Though I am assisted by the rocking motion of the sea, my opponent is unrelenting. As soon as it regains its barings, it lunges again. This time, I brace myself with my harpoon, using it to shield myself from the oncoming attack. It isn’t a smart move- I can hear my weapon’s shaft begin to snap with the weight impacted onto it. I am, very rapidly, running out of time.

With all the strength I can muster, my gaze locked in that of my unmerciful opponent, I wretch my harpoon from it, and relish in the way it fearfully grasps for purchase. I step back as I maneuver it, and, awkwardly and desperately, plunge its hooked tip into the chest of the beast.

It was a poor shot. My proximity to my target, and the imbalanced stance I took when making it, all lead to my harpoon landing with less force than it should’ve. But it lands. I wretch my weapon out of its chest and watch with unmasked delight as red blood spills from the wound in its chest, glistening and distinct even in the dim of my lantern. It gasps, then claws for its heart, then shrinks backwards, closer to the sea. I scream, “NO!” It was not supposed to flee. It was not supposed to survive. The wound should’ve killed it. I should’ve had my vengeance.

But as quickly as it ascended, it disappears back into the pitch of night, slinking away into the night. I will not see it again til it has healed. My work will not be completed tonight. I have failed.

What a shame. I was hoping to taste the flesh of an anglerfish tonight.