A ROCK AT THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN
By: Madi Schwentner
Tags: LGBTQ, Romance, Fiction, Suicide, Sadness

The waves crashed on the rocks, developing their gray aura in a crash of blue. The tide rolled in and out, bringing new substance with every crash upon the shore. The sand — filled with specs of life, old and new — crunch underneath my feet. My hands, sticky from the salt lingering in the air. My hair, reacting to the wind as best as it can as it’s restrained from full freedom. The wind whistles around me; it envelops me in a comforting, cold hug. The salty taste persisting in the back of my mouth despite my efforts to keep hydrated.

Grandmother had always said that with each movement — bringing you closer to the core of the ocean — you are descending slowly into a world filled with things only living in your imagination. I bring my knees closer to my chest, making my sobs much less visible to the outside world. Not that anyone would care otherwise, but I learned from a young age that you never show weakness, else someone might dare to use it against you.

All my life I’ve been alone. My mom was the first one to go, she died from an intruder the day I was born. My whole life I’ve always seen pictures of her and wished I could look like her; She was the definition of beauty. I click my locket open and look to the left side. Her long light brown hair swept over her face in the wind with a smile so bright that you would never have guessed she died the day of this picture. In her arms was me, wearing a smile and laughing while my mom was smiling at me. I felt my heart break a little more.

I uncrunch from my knees, lay on my back, and close my eyes, feeling the cool, salty, ocean water flow underneath me, It’s almost as if I can lay my hand on the sand, and feel the shifting earth beneath, the way the sand is constantly moving from continent to continent. Nothing weighing it down. Free to go wherever it pleases.

Next, was my father. He disappeared after my mother had died, leaving me to my grandmother. A tiny little baby, dropped in the middle of the carribean, with no one else but my gran. There never were really any pictures of my father, and the only one that I have is torn in half, his face ripped off leaving just his body. From what I can see my father was tall. He was where I got my darker skin from. My skin, almost exactly matching his.

Another crack appears in my already broken heart.

I slowly get up from the sand, walking towards the pier that leads out into the open sea, where no one could hear you, see you, or even remember you. A place where, once out far enough, you were erased; once arrived, you were to be completely forgotten about on this plane of mere human existence. Where no bird, fish, mammal, human, rock, water, air, or even the sun could save you.

One more Crack.

. After my father was my best friend Leslie when I was 15. She died in a freak boating accident along with her whole family. Her house is still standing where it should be, untouched by the outside world — besides me — for 4 years. I still walk in and smell the scent of Mrs.Ramirez cooking fish, or the fresh scent of cut grass from Mr.Ramirez as he walks in and gulps down a glass of ice cold water after a long day of hard work. And sometimes, I can even walk into Les’s room and almost hear her humming along to some american music that she. got when she went to the US the summer previous. The rambunctious twins in the background scream over who gets to play with the toy next, as Les leads me out of the house, avoiding her parents, so we could go for a late night walk on the beach to talk about our issues.

But what I never told her was that deep inside, my heart would flutter when she would drag me out to the beach, or that my stomach would get butterflies everytime she would dance to that one song where the guy had a high pitched voice that I would always make fun of, or even every time she got hurt, I felt so sick to my stomach that I thought I was gonna die.

. The funny thing is, the day she died, I was planning on finally telling her everything, 9 years of hiding behind the labels of best friend, and she’s like a sister to me. I was finally going to tell her that secretly, I was in love with her. But of course, my life is just a cruel joke to the universe. Everyday that I exist it thinks, what could I do to make her life even more like hell.

. I take the last step on the pier, reaching the end. The pier with steps that lead down to the end. It was late at night so i knew no one would be out here. I listen for a moment, taking a last breath of fresh air and dangling my legs in the water. I looked down into the abyss, almost hearing it calling for me, welcoming me home. The salt filled tears start to stream down my face; I grab my bag and get to work before the tears could block my vision anymore. I pull out the picture of my nana.

And I guess last but not least, my gran. She was always the one who comforted me through the hard times, but with her dying breath, I couldn’t be the one who comforted her. After all the times she sat and wiped my tears away, through the anguish, depression, anxiety, bullying, death, and heartbreak, she was always the one by my side. But I just couldn’t be there.

I slam my fist against the pier feeling it shake. A few deep breaths in, and I’ve made my choice. I sigh, she was the only thing keeping me grounded to this earth, without her, today wouldn’t have been such a long wait for the universe.

A part of me knows that I should forgive myself for everything near the end. But, when I was nine, things started to go really downhill. She would lock the door, not talk to anyone, send me to go get groceries all. while she sat. She sat at that stupid windowsill not telling anyone what was going on, not even me. She would sit staring at the open ocean, almost waiting for something to happen. Everyday she would have me sit opposite of her on the windowsill, and tell me stories. Stories of an underwater world filled with things that were only a figment of my imagination. She would tell me of great conquests of the people that lived underwater, Love stories filled with angst and sadness, Adventures led by people not of these lands, and everyday, I would sit criss cross applesauce and listen, listen to all she had to say. Of course, I knew they were just anecdotes to teach me about life. But it wasn’t the words that counted, it was that she spent every day teaching and filling me with hope, hope that I could live a better life than her, a better life than my parents, and a better life than most where I come from.

I choked on a sob, I couldn’t breathe; The tears were rivers filled with every human emotion. Rivers filled with sadness, grief, and fear. Sadness coming from a small child waking up on the beach after my one parent that I had left, left for good. Grief coming from the confused fifteen year old getting a call at midnight telling her about a boating accident. And finally Fear, Fear coming from the so called grown up woman, fear of what would happen to her grandmother after she left for college.

I leaned over my legs watching, waiting for the perfect time as my tears were falling into the water. I took a deep breath, 1, 2, 3, I attached the rope to my leg, 4, 5, 6, I threw the end of the rope and what was attached into the water, 7, 8, 9, I took a long, look into the welcoming, comforting abyss, 10, 11, 12, I jumped. And as I blacked out, I realized, finally…. I was home.