The sound of cold water rushing in their ears. The feeling of cold water soaking into their skin, entering through the pores. The numbness starting from the together tied feet and spreading out through their entire bodies. The panic filling their lungs and the pressure building up with every metre that they drop. The hysterical movements, almost like seizures, that try to peel off the rope from their wrists. The blurriness that is around their sight starting to penetrate their brain, confusing up and down, left and right. The burst of desperation as the mouths fly open, inhaling the cold water, burning their throats like acid. The sensation of almost feeling the salt rubbing the skin inside their throats open. The choking coughs and tears that won't come. The feeling of drowning.
They sink deeper and deeper. When they feel as if the black dots swimming around them finally become one and the agony will shift to forever lasting silence, that's when their legs, that are bound together, can suddenly swim, their swollen eyeballs turn white and see crystal clear, their lungs stop resisting the salt water and they feel like they can breathe again. A sensation of calmness spreads through their bodies and revives them. An image, repeatedly, appearing in their minds. The wooden plank under their bare feet. The cheering men stamping their feet on the floor of the ship, making the plank shake and sway away under the women's feet. A feeling, repeatedly, appearing in their minds. The cold tip of a sword between their ribs, tearing a small hole into the thin fabric. The choking panic in their throats and the stinging tears in their eyes. The freezing coldness when they lose their balance and fall into the ocean.
Anger fills their veins and makes their nostrils flare in anticipation. With incredible force, they swim to the surface and break through it. Here they wait. For the next ship. For the next ship with men on board. Men that believe having women on a ship is bad luck. Men that do not understand that women are one with nature and will guide them safely to their destination. Men that make women walk over the plank into their cold deaths. Men that think it is that easy to get rid of a woman.
Whenever a ship appears, the fallen women open their mouths and sing in their hoarse voices with throats that still sting from the saltwater. Their voices are mesmerising to the men on board and one after the other they start wishing to be as close as possible to those voices. As close as possible to those fallen angels in the water with their fair skin, as white as death. Every ounce of common sense leaves them and they jump into the water where they are guided to the ground of the sea by the women. Guided to their bitter sweet deaths. The last thing they see are the flashing sharp teeth of the women as they hiss at them and realisation hits the lost men but it is already too late.
No man is safe as long as that dark corner in their heart exists. That dark corner that forces women to jump into their cold deaths.
This is how men created Sirens. Their own downfall.