Pre
A storm is coming, and blood from the ocean wraps around my ankles. I’m planted on the beach; my feet stuck in wet sand that glues me in place like cement. There is no one around. No sound. No breeze. No atmosphere. The skies above are overcast and gunmetal gray. Ominous. A half-constructed sandcastle to my right remains unattended.
And he’s out there. The boy. Out in the blood-waves as the swell crashes into the rocky shore. I try to reach him, to call out to him, but I can’t. My voice won’t work, no matter how hard I scream. My legs can’t break free of the sand. Blood-water stains the entire beach.
Tears fall down my cheeks, and I’m suffocating. The waves get higher. Blood-mist sprays my face, and the boy keeps getting carried out farther with the tide.
From somewhere beyond, two faint glowing lights race closer, toward me, from out past the boy. Two round lights that force me to squint my eyes.
I scream as loud as I can, but my voice won’t work, like the entire world is muted. Only the sounds of the little boy screaming out my name over and over.
I can’t reach him, but the sky gets darker, the blood redder, and the waves bigger.
The two round lights closer.
But I just can’t reach––
Sometimes it’s hard just to wake up.
I love lying awake in bed, one arm bent underneath the nape of my neck and the other extended as I wave it in and out of the prisms of light that seep in through the cracks of my blinds. Trying to catch the dust. This moment, the quiet signaling the pre-dawn in the mornings before school, is blissful. These are the moments I look forward to. It’s the one time when I can hold my breath, stare up at the blank ceiling in the dark, and just sink, hiding from the world. It won’t last long. But maybe it will be just long enough.
I roll over in preparation for my alarm clock that’s about to blare its ugly trumpet. I’m ready for it; I never give it the satisfaction of getting out more than a squeak before bashing it on the head like a whack-a-mole.
BEEP.
Roll.
BANG.
I swing my legs over the bed and hop down, stand on the balls of my feet until my ankles crack, and then move forward over the carpet. Before I touch the knob, I press my ear to the door and listen to the muffled buzzing of Dad’s electric shaver from the bathroom down the hall. I can hear the feathery slap of my mom shuffling a deck of cards in the kitchen downstairs, and I imagine her blue night robe draped around her as the tea boils on the stove.
It’s their morning ritual, and it never changes.
It’s been like this every morning for six months.
I peer over my shoulder at the last beam of light shining in and extend my hand, bathing in the golden ray. The particles seem to hover, almost trapped. They belong to the pre-dawn—just another thing that unnerves me about opening the door. The beauty will no longer belong to me. I won’t be able to control it in the real world.
My hands tremble as I flick on the light, shielding my eyes from the piercing white. I grab my phone from the nearby dresser and see a new text:
Unknown
i kno a secret about u…
Liar
Chills.
I’ve never gotten a text like this before.
But they’re right.
After I clear away the screen, confused, the picture on my background comes into focus—me with an arm wrapped around my brother in a headlock. He is wearing the seashell necklace. We are in the tree house we built in the woods. My breath catches in my throat until I cough and throw the phone on my bed.
Goosebumps.
My heart pings and I clutch at my chest. A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead, and I undress for my shower. I suppose, my last shower. And that’s when it strikes me for the first time today:
My last shower.
I take off my shirt and stare at the purple bruise below my left rib cage. Run my hand over the bumpy surface and wince at the pain, but push harder to feel the pain deeper. It’s the only thing that feels normal. It’s exactly what I deserve.
With one last deep breath, inhaling the memory of my room, I place a hand on the brass knob of my bedroom door. It’s cool under my sweaty palm. Inside my head, the sirens’ wail echo their approach. Even today, months after everything, it tells me this is the only way.
I step into the dim hallway and jiggle the knob to another bedroom door on my left.
Still locked.
Breathe in.
Anybody in there?
Breathe out.
You can come out now.
My name is Grayson Falconi, but most people call me Gray.
I’m seventeen years old.
And today I’m going to die.
