Rockaway Beach, New York. 

(3 am)

The sudden pull of the ocean takes me by surprise—and I thought I was an excellent swimmer. Go figure. What started off as a whimsical self-dare is turning into my last wrong choice. I'm sinking, dragged to the bottom of this dark vastness. Fire filling my lungs as if freaking Poseidon himself was gripping and squeezing my chest.

This ocean is reluctant to take any more of my bullshit, so it shoves inside my mouth, invading every aching cell of my reckless body. 

Damn it, I shouldn't have smoked weed to begin with. I'm so high, the seabed seems alive. There are creatures in here waiting for my demise. They ache to feed on the remains of my wistful sadness.

 I'm also drunk. Part of me knows it is not possible for my stomach to be brimming with flotsam, but this impending heaviness begs to differ—I'm a shipwreck after all. Rejected and worthless: a dying mess.

Do I care? Not much. 

Will someone miss me? I doubt it—being the complete asshole I've proven to be, especially to Candace. I've tried to make it work, failing, of course. She is too much for me to handle. So damn conceited. Even at our finest, we wouldn't make sense. Not then, definitely not now.

It's hurting real bad; my eyes sting like hell, rebelling on the saltiness and debris.

 Is this what dying feels like? That you are alone and afraid in the arms of this dark current. That you realize how none of this was what you wanted as your last breath flutters out of your chest and bubbles out into a world that doesn't belong to you anymore.

Did I want to kill myself? Nah, guess one dumb choice led to another, then another, and then, after an entire bottle of Jägermeister, nothing mattered anymore, at least no more than it has for these past six months. A tiny part of me wants to be brave in my last moments—so I convince myself it's better to leave with my head held high rather than deal with this crippling sorrow that's fueling whatever I am cowering from.

As time runs out, my hollow, gurgling sobs give way to incoherent longings. I'm going to miss my Yamaha, bet they don't have motorbikes where I'm headed. The one thing that helped against this void was the wind slapping my cheeks every time I took it for a spin. I haven't been a good example of this living business. Ghosting rather than existing, blurring away the days, one drag at a time. Guess that rules out Heaven for me.

I'm also going to miss my canvases and brushes; painting is my only outlet, slipping inside the eye of my mind every time reality gets, well... too freaking real—each brushstroke allowing me to find a better place to hide.

I'm so angry at myself, should've thought this through. I don't even know why I went into the water. Now it's too late to fix this conundrum. To fix me.

All my vain attempts at surfacing cave at such realization, so I stop and let myself fade away with a thousand stars up above the night sky.

***

Rockaway Beach, New York. 

(6:45 am)

Dang, I am frozen solid. 

I thought Hell would scald; then again, I can confirm that the path to it is paved with good intentions. I didn't want to hurt anyone by being so off these past months, but ended up doing so, anyway. My actions led to bad outcomes; that's a fact. Even though being dead is pretty much as bad an outcome as any, there's still my old nagging desire to stir things up a little, daring me to open my eyes.

When I do, shards of light pierce my sight, making me realize not only that I am very much alive but also soaked to the bone, cold seeping its way in and sand in all the wrong places. My eyes travel down my torso as I suck in a deep breath. On top of my t-shirt, I'm now wearing an unfamiliar, black hoodie—which, oh my! smells heavenly, but then again—how is this even possible?

I place a quivering hand on top of my heaving chest. It rises with an uneven rhythm. 

Up, up, down. I'm breathing—What?

I try rising to my feet, only for a massive head rush to slap me back down. 

Mental note: Never, ever hit the hay again if you will end up getting shitfaced. 

I look around hoping there's some sort of evidence of whatever happened last night and come up empty-handed except for a bunch of marks on the sand, footprints that go all the way from the ocean to me. Shitty remorseful me. Saying 'I don't feel so good' would be the understatement of the year, six words I doubt any of my folks would grasp either.

Where the hell is my cell? Was I so wasted that I dove into the water with it? 

I find it sticking out from the sand... if anyone is watching me crawl my way to grab it, I'm pretty sure I'll be changing my mind in this whole not-being-dead-after-all business. 

Who the hell do you call when you've hit rock bottom? A friend? No way, don't have one I'd like to share this amount of fuckedupness with. A possible ex-girlfriend? Knowing her, better not. With slump shoulders and a never-ending sigh, I end up texting Savannah.

Noah: Sis... I kinnda need a lift rn 

Noah: Also... Hi. 

Savvy: Dude... WHERE THE HELL HAVE U BEEN????!!! Mom's frantic. Dad's pissed. 

As she answers, I'm dreading what I must do next. I check and find ten missed calls from home and double the amount from Candace. I'm screwed.

Noah: Savvy, please...

Savvy: Fine. On my way. Wait, where are u?

Noah: Rockaway Beach

Savvy: WTF! IT'S 7 AM!

Noah: I know! Also... could u bring a towel?

Savvy: ...

Noah: Same old me, right?

Savvy: Noah...

Noah: Yeah?

Savvy: Nothing. Be there in 10. WITH a towel. *sigh*

***

I feel like a total loser; how many more times will I fuck it up? I mean, I had a good run over my teenage years, but now—now I should be able to adult the hell up. I'm so lost to the point of wondering whether this total mess is even worth it. If I am worth it. 

I used to have everything sorted out. Why have things changed so radically? Hell, to be honest, I can't bullshit myself; things did not change; they sort of blurred until one day I woke up and knew nothing about myself anymore or where I wanted my life to lead me. 

Now here I am, to where it has led me—a deserted beach in Brooklyn.

The wind picks up, and my teeth rattle, I put my cell in the front pocket of this unknown hoodie, and my fingers graze something on its inside. A Polaroid. A close-up on a boy's face, smiling at me... Blurry, but captivating. I guess he took it last night... Was he by my side? I squint like a blind bat, as if that could help recognize his face, but of course I can't quite figure out his features.

Flashes of a surfboard floating above me come rushing in; guess I wasn't all alone as I thought I was. Odd.

I take another glance at the damn picture and cannot help noticing the sinews and curves of this stranger's face. Full lips, thinnish face. I'm biting mine looking like a fool, trying to figure out more of this puzzle that has brought a million questions, making me want to linger here on this beach, all messed up as I am right now. I sort of want to stick around for answers.

Why would he waste time rescuing me?

Who the hell is he, for crying out loud?

Why did he leave me wearing something of his? I picture long, delicate fingers covering my soaked tee with his hoodie. Handling my limp head, so it wouldn't bump against the sand and my breathing hitches.

Why on earth is my heart racing so fast, getting me all jittery and high-strung?

I try fending off this uneasiness, but then again—what is this smile teasing my dry lips as I grin back at the Polaroid?

I know it's not the time to quote the Gallagher brothers, but what's the story, morning glory?