Dedicated to EmSlough for writing amazing books that inspire me

S a m

"When I'm drowning, that's when I could finally breathe." - Clean, Taylor Swift

I'm drowning.

Drowning in a sea of monsters.

But no one knows how it feels to be stranded.

To be vulnerable.

No one has ever understood.

And no one ever will.

*

"Mum! I'm headed to work!" I call out, grabbing my black backpack off the foot of my bed.

"Alright, honey," she replies. "Enjoy yourself."

I slip on my black Vans and sling one strap of my backpack across my right shoulder, running my hand through my hair and combing out the tangles in them before heading downstairs. I snatch the keys off the kitchen table and head out.

The distinct smell of salt water wafts into my nose the moment I step outside, and I wrinkle it in disgust. I've never really gotten used to this smell nor am I particularly fond of it, even though I've lived in this seaside town for eighteen years.

You'd think otherwise.

I walk towards Boardwalk Avenue, the bustling shopping avenue of Westshire, where my workplace, the antique store, is located. The vast sky is blue and cloudless, a refreshing sight, especially after the dreary and rainy days of spring.

The streets are unsurprisingly empty. It's a Sunday morning, and not many people have to get up early for school or work, nor do they go shopping until around noontime. It's a small town, after all, and everything is in close proximity. It leaves me with a fleeting sense of peace and calm that vanishes just as quickly as it came.

You will always be alone.

I look down as I walk, not wanting to risk the chance of someone seeing and recognising me. I'd rather stay hidden in the shadows.

Where you belong.

Before I know it, I find myself outside the antique store. The name of the shop—Jones' Antiques—is written on the display window to the left of the entrance in gold, the opening hours written below it in white. The storefront is simple and not something that would catch everyone's eye, especially since it's a tiny shop wedged between the Espresso and Little Black Dress, the two of the biggest shops on Boardwalk Avenue.

I know this is not a common place most teens would work at, but the reason I do is because I'm fascinated and completely blown away by the things that Mr. Jones buys and collects from people all around the world. It's such an intriguing place to be.

They're all old, chipped, and broken, but they're beautiful. Beautiful in their imperfection. There's a story behind every item, even if we will never know what they are. They've all been through much more than we'll ever know. That never fails to fascinate me.

They're nothing like you.

You will always be broken, your story irrelevant.

Broken and never beautiful.

I lean against the door of the shop to push it open, and the bell overhead jingles, indicating my arrival to the store owner.

"Good morning, Mr. Jones," I greet, turning over the 'closed' sign before making my way to the back office.

"A very good morning to you too, Sam. It's so good to see you again," he replies, beaming.

"How are you?" I ask, placing my bag on the sofa pushed against the left wall of the room. "And Tony?"

Anthony—or Tony, as he prefers to be called—is Mr. Jones' son. He occasionally helps out around the shop as well, though I know him from school. We're in the same history and psychology class, and he's the one who told me about his dad's shop in the first place. Otherwise, I would never have known about this shop, since I've always overlooked it, never quite noticing it in its small crook.

"I'm great. Never been better," he answers cheerfully. "Tony is in London to check out his college. He got into University College London on a scholarship; did I tell you that? He'll be there for the rest of the month. How about you, my boy?"

Tony is everything you'll never be.

Why do you even bother?

I shrug nonchalantly. "I'm good," I lie, not wanting to burden the elderly man with the guilt that has been eating me inside out.

He doesn't deserve it.

No one does.

But you do.

"Glad to hear that." He pauses, contemplating his next words. "You've just finished school too, haven't you?"

I nod. "Yes, Mr. Jones."

He chuckles. "You don't have to be so formal with me, Sam. How many times have I told you?"

I let out a halfhearted laugh, not knowing how to reply. It feels rude not to address him properly. After all, not only is he my boss, but he's also my elder.

"Which college are you headed to his September?"

I smile sheepishly. "I haven't decided yet. I may take a gap year instead. I'm thinking of doing some volunteer work or perhaps go travelling. It'd be nice to take a break."

"Well, whatever you decide, make sure you do it for yourself. You're a smart boy, Sam. I know you'll make the right choice."

That's easier said than done.

Don't be selfish, Sam.

You don't deserve the best.

"Thank you."

You don't deserve it.

"Also, Sam, could you do me a favour and help me organise that back section?" he says, gesturing towards the shelf in the back left corner of the shop. "I've been having severe backaches recently and can't tidy up the shop as much."

I chuckle. "Of course, Mr. Jones. That's why I'm here."

"Thank you, Sam. You're always so helpful."

I chuckle, leaving the office, keeping the door ajar, and head towards the section Mr. Jones pointed at. My eyes sweep across the area, immediately noticing the pile of clothes and accessories strewn across the entire back aisle.

I sigh, certain that it was a couple of bored teens who messed up this place. This seems to be the place those teens tend to terrorise, possibly because it's a rather quirky shop and the shopkeeper isn't exactly the most youthful of people. Why can't they stop causing trouble? Or at least, choose a different place to cause trouble to

You say that as if you're not trouble yourself.

I bend down to pick them up before folding them and placing them back onto the shelf.

As much as I love this place—and the owner too, for that matter—working is a completely different story. It gets tedious and tiring, especially if organising is not your forte, and I'm not exactly bright and alert to begin with.

I can already tell that today is going to be a long day.

*

"How was work today?" Stacey, my younger sister, asks me cheerily, poking at her boiled vegetables, reluctant to eat them.

"It was okay, I suppose," I reply nonchalantly, shrugging, shoving a spoonful of mashed potatoes into my mouth.

"What did you do?" Mum says lightly, her tone as bright and motherly as ever. "Did you see any interesting things?"

"Nothing much, really. Just the usual. And cleaned up the shop today. Those pesky teens who are always wreaking havoc made a mess of it again."

Nothing interesting will ever happen to you.

You will never be good enough.

You don't deserve it.

All of a sudden, my head starts throbbing dully, though it quickly starts hammering full on. Another migraine. Great. Talk about timing. I wish the migraines would stop. Or at least not come so frequently.

They never used to be a problem.

Until the accident.

"May I be excused?" I mutter, standing up, rubbing my temples with my thumb and index finger, hoping that it will lessen the pain.

"Do you want an aspirin, sweetie?" Mum asks, concern eminent in her voice.

I shake my head, instantly regretting the decision as my head pounds even harder. "It's fine, Mum. I'll just go and take a rest," I answer, pushing my chair in.

Hopefully, that will do the trick.

The walk to my room is a dreadfully long one with my head feeling heavier every step I take. By the time I reach my room, the migraine has become so bad to the point the whole room seems to be spinning.

I close the door behind me and stumble to my cabinet, one hand clutching onto my head, the other holding onto the cabinet itself to regain my balance. I thought I could make it through this time without medication. I stand corrected.

But you know medicines have never helped you anyway.

I pull open the drawer and fumble around, my eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to handle the immense pain, until I find my bottle of aspirin. Leaning against the wardrobe, I struggle to open the bottle, and when I do, I immediately pop two tablets into my mouth and swallow it dry, cringing as the tablet goes down my throat, before lying on my bed.

I close my eyes and wait for the medicine to kick in, the migraine becoming worse and worse by the minute, if that's even possible. The pain; it's still there, getting more intense by the second until I can barely think straight.

The pain from this terrible migraine.

The pain from your past.

It's not dissipating. It's not going away.

I don't think it ever will.

___

A/N: I know this is short but it feels very complete and there's nothing I can add any more. Also, what do you think Sam's story is? I'd love to hear your opinions in the comments! :) Don't forget to tell me how I can improve and vote if you liked it. I'm still learning and your feedback is a really big part in that.

Update (29/1/16): I have decided to change Sam's sister's name to Stacey since a lot of you are confused

Update (04/06/17): The rest of the edited version of Voices after this chapter is available on Tapas (on Android and iOS, also available on web at tapas.io). The rest of the Wattpad version is the first draft. Enjoy