On holiday with his brother in Ios, Laurent bathes in a hot spring.
It’s unfair on a cosmic level that Laurent should be happened upon by a stranger in his current condition. Psychological collapse should be allowed, by the universe, to be a solitary affair, especially when it happens in a state of complete undress. He reaches up to push his sopping hair from his eyes. Water streams from his head, down his body, as though a bucket had been dumped over his head. His gasping mouth now pulls in air, his feet firmly on the rock bottom of the spring and legs holding him up unshakably. A moment of elation, perhaps, before he dies. The lift it makes in his stomach is odd, like the giddy drop on a rollercoaster. Laurent is a ragdoll, pulled down into the dark at improbable speed. No on-page rape or explicit sexual assault.
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