A/N-Welcome to my new story, based on Guillermo del Toro's upcoming movie, The Shape Of Water. Be warned that there are movie spoilers in this, which may or may not be accurate later on, as I'm basing them off of the press photos and a possible script. This story is told from both the creature's and Elisa's point of view. So far there are four, fairly short, chapters written.

The Shape of Loneliness

Chapter 1 Capture

Riene, 2017

The new tank was slightly better than the old. At least this one did not scrape his sides painfully sore where the rough metal edges had rubbed until scales had fallen away leaving raw rubbed flesh beneath. The smaller tank had been misery such as he had never known, tightly enclosed in warm, sluggish water, inadequate oxygen, filling slowly with his own waste at the lack of circulation. He'd been desperate to escape.

He'd lost track of time, trapped there in the narrow tube, and now in this newer, larger tank. He sensed he was underground, perhaps in a cave? But the water did not have an outlet, and he'd learned from painful experience to stay away from the dark and moving object in the far corner. It smelled of foreignness, the same oily unpleasant aroma of the transport tube. It was unforgivingly hard as well, and had trapped his fingers in an agonizing grip when he'd once tried to fathom its purpose.

He was chilled, he was hungry, his muscles cramped from being confined for so long. And worst of all, he was lost; angry and bewildered by the events that had overtaken him. And achingly, achingly lonely.

It had been some time, years perhaps? since he had seen those of his own kind. Driven by desperation and a dim memory, he'd swum the channel upstream to where the Land Dwellers had once greeted his people every spring. The shifting angles of the crepuscular light had told him it was the Time, and he'd begun the journey in hope to meet Others.

But even this too had been wrong. The water of the great river had grown steadily more murky and heated, lacking the oxygen he remembered and the fish which had once darted through the jewel-toned depths.

When instinct told him it was the Place, he had surfaced…and reeled backwards in shock. Gone were the towering trees he remembered, and the grassy plants hanging over the rapids. The stones of the river, where the Land Dwellers had greeted his people were gone as well, torn from their roots. Gone were the Others of his kind, and gone too were the small brown Land Dwellers.

He paddled about in dismay, looking for them. He did not dare emerge; something in the very air and water warned him of Wrongness. The air held a faint brown tinge, the water brown too with silt with an oily sheen that made his eyes and gills burn unpleasantly.

It was the proper Time, he knew. The Land Dwellers should be here, offering gifts. They would throw flowers and fruits, and most wonderfully, eggs of land-birds. His people in turn would scoop the enormous heavy red-tailed fish from the water in return, and the Land Dwellers would cry out respectfully, gratefully. Perhaps they would even swim together, later, racing through the waters, and call to each other, neither understanding but feeling the Completeness of things.

But the Land Dwellers had not been there, nor had his people.

Filled with longing, he'd swum away, departing this area. Perhaps in his grief and confusion he had not been careful. By the time he saw the net it was far to late.

And now he was here, trapped in this unpleasant enclosure, far from home, and more alone than ever.

The heavy chain dragged behind him, the metal collar weighing painfully on his neck. He circled the tank once more, but there was no safe place to sleep, and he was so desperately tired.

If there was one thing he had learned since his capture, it was that these pale Land Dwellers were cruel, utterly unlike the smaller brown ones. It was they who had captured him, had pressed the cylindrical tube against him until he screamed in agony and fallen into darkness, only to awake and find the tormenting ring about his neck, rubbing his throat gills and attached to a chain. His chest now bore multiple painful welts where the cylinder had touched. He backed away each time they brought it out, but one of the pale ones seemed to enjoy inflicting the agony. They pulled him forward, jabbing him with sharp objects, holding devices to him doing things he could not comprehend. He loathed their touch and sensed both fear and disgust in them. And they were weak, so weak. Had it not been for his shackles he could have killed them all.

He'd been out of the water far too long, his chest painfully tight and constricting, wheezing in the chill air, desperate to regain the relative safety of the tank. The cylinder buzzed again, prodding him in the chest and he felt his bladder loosen, falling to his knees, howling in pain. The sneering face drew near, reaching out a hand, seizing his gills, drying in the air. A second later he spun, razor-sharp teeth severing two of the fingers that hurt him. Blood, hot and bitter, filled his mouth and he spat the digits across the room. The buzzing cylinder struck him again and again until he knew no more.

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