Diacope

Diacope (di-a’-co-pee): Repetition of a word with one or more between, usually to express deep feeling.

“Help, I’m drowning, Help, help, I’m sinking, help me! What the hell is wrong with you? Save me!”

It was true. She was drowning. Now she’s learning her lesson. She should’ve taken the swimming classes I reserved for her at the Aquatic Center. Now, it’s too late. It’s too bad she’s fallen into the Erie Canal—“low bridge, everybody down.” Ha ha. There she goes floating face down on her way to Syracuse, or maybe, all the way to Buffalo!

I am a heartless wonder. I wouldn’t say I murdered her, I just let her die. I’m not a bad person. I’m not a good person either. I am just a person. I have my likes and dislikes, my ups and downs, and my ins and outs. Mostly, though, I have my dislikes, downs, and outs. But it was all her fault.

I told her not to wear high heels for our hike along the Erie Canal. She wore her red Pradas anyway. We were walking along hand-in-hand looking at the Fall foliage and marveling at the beauty of the warm Autumn afternoon. Two people rode by on bicycles too close, and we had to jump out of their way. She lost her footing, and then, out of nowhere, a gaggle of Canada Geese ran toward her, nipping at her ankles. I just stood there and watched as they herded her over the bank of the canal, angrily honking. That’s when the cries for help started. Despite the fact that I had taken my medication that morning, it wasn’t helping me cope with what was happening in front of me.

I blamed her for what was happening. So, she drowned. I threw her stuff that was in my car into the canal. I drove home, slightly paranoid, with the smell of murder on me. On my way home I stopped at the Jack in the Box drive-in window and ordered a Large Jumbo Jack. Mom would be mad, but I was dying for a burger.

The person in the ordering window sniffed the air and asked if I’d recently murdered somebody. Then, she laughed and said ”Poor Sarah, shame on you.” I yelled “It was an accident!” I panicked, and drove away leaving my order behind. I turned on the radio to listen to NPR. “Help me! Help me!” It was her voice on the radio! When I got home, my Mom greeted me and sniffed. “Son, have you been hanging out with murderers?” I said “No!” and ran upstairs.

It’s my smell, I thought. I’ve got to get rid of it. I’ll take a hot bath.

POSTSCRIPT

He ran a tub using his sister’s bubble bath. He took off his clothes and stepped into the warm water and stretched out. It felt so good and the little popping sounds of the bubbles made it even better.

His mother went looking for him when he didn’t answer her or come down to dinner. She found him dead in the bathtub. Somehow he had drowned. There was no sign of struggle. When the coroner flipped him over, he made a sound that sounded like “help,” but the Coroner said it was just air escaping from his lungs. In addition, he looked happy, with what looked like smile locked on his face. There one anomaly, however. There was a Canada Goose wing feather stuck in his eyeball.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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