Life.Guard. (1)

A short story. Part one of three.

It was not my initial intension, but this story aligns with September being the Suicide awarness month. So, some dark themes ahead.

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Summer lingered teasing the hearts and minds of all her lovers, exhaling hot, lustful winds of the last heatwave.

He had escaped hell and finally he could breathe.

Sam walked right out of his life, out of the small, grey box his office space had been; a labyrinth of broken everyday lives, trapped in cubicles. Out on the molten lava pavement of the heat-stricken city. The heatwave drove the city mad. Hellish subway swallowing, chewing, and grinding sweaty bodies making their way to air-conditioned shelters of stores and offices.

All it took was a broken air-conditioner in their office complex to make Sam reach the point of no return. Sweat dripped from his boss’s nose as he yelled his curses at Sam. He didn’t say a word in return, staring and sweating, feeling the remains of his sanity flowing down his spine. Sam got up and left.

He knew his way out of the pointless labyrinth his life had become.

Back to the start, a child’s game - you lose, go back to the start Sammy! No cheating!

Back to his apartment where he caught Linda cheating on him with, back to the train that got him to this city, back to the bus to his hometown by the sea, counting back the minutes and miles with his forehead pressed to the cool glass window. Back to the last place he had truly lived, not just existed.

He had been a tired man among many others like him. A man of ruins, held by the pathetic scaffolding of cigarettes, alcohol, and anti-depressants.

“You alright, son?” The old buss puffed smoke like one of the friendly drunks living in Sam’s neighbourhood, a piece of junk sitting on the side of the road or rolling his last days away.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Sam smiled to himself. “I’m good” was a lie he wanted to believe.

Back to the start, he stood on the edge of the world. After a jog through the woods, he stood by the sea. The late evening chill had scared away the cheerful summer-families. The scent of Autumn in the air attracted a different kind of crowd. Late night swimmers, never-stopping joggers, dog-walkers, dark, lonesome figures playing a game of hide-and-seek with the light.

Sam knew this feeling well; the need to find solace in a dark safe space, a womb of quiet hours hiding from the light, touch, and sound, before the morning would birth him into a cold, indifferent world.

The last time he truly embraced the sunlight was here, by the sea, where his cousin worked as a lifeguard, spending the hot days of summer in the old lifeguard’s post; a tiny shack stranded between the beach and the pine forest, a magic place holding two worlds together. Or at least that’s how Sam saw it through his seventeen-year-old eyes. The beach house was a little world on its own; it had strange stuff hanging on every wall - everything the sea had caught and released from its salty hands. Dolls with their lifeless eyes trapped in an everlasting smile, plastic spades and toy buckets in faded reds and blues, fishing nets, smooth pieces of driftwood, glass pebbles. Sam’s cousin Ricky was a fun-loving guy. He loved the sea. He loved it so much, he decided to stay in the sea forever.

Back to the start, Sammy! No cheating!

Ricky was his only friend. Four years older, but not wiser. They spent every summer together, even when Ricky got that lifeguard’s job. Sam hung around the beach whenever he could. They were young, they were fun. Every day was a good day. But Ricky’s days came to an end too soon.

Sam stood by the sea, waves washing over his feet, memories crashing over him. He didn’t want to remember.

Back to the start, Sammy! Ricky’s voice from their childhood summers would haunt him.

Back to that day he came to the beach late, because of an early Autumn storm. On this day twelve years ago, he saw Ricky wrapped in a body bag and loaded into an ambulance. Ricky had saved a reckless swimmer, but he couldn’t save himself. The survivor’s guilt must’ve haunted that other person, after the hospital there was no sign of that fool, no condolences to Ricky’s family, nothing.

Sam gritted his teeth. This day changed his course. He dropped the idea of following Ricky’s steps. He didn’t swim. Never went to the seaside. His summer was over forever. Until he became a shell of a man, unable to feel, because antidepressants did their job. He listened to his therapist, breaking his hours into minutes, surviving minute after minute, random fractions of time, bitter pills he swallowed one by one. He wouldn’t be able to tackle a whole handful of his life, minute by minute was easier. Time broken in fractions formed a broken life, a sequence of interconnected moments. Steps, his therapist had said, it’s not broken pieces, it’s steps.

Sam felt like stepping on shards. His life was smashed, he wanted it to be whole again.

He took the deepest breath; the salty air fed him like a rich nourishing balm. He let out the air, let go of the pain with the loudest cry.

“You alright, bud?” An elderly woman with an obese chihuahua asked.

“I’m good,” he replied.

She went away, the chubby pooch trotting along with her, taking the last remains of the light; the sun had set, dusk rolled from the sea along with the fog. Its cool fingers soothed Sam’s face, while the hot airstreams of the heatwave caressed his back.

Sam walked to the old lifeguard post; a shack really, it had lost its purpose after Ricky’s death. When the Lifeguard couldn’t save himself, the lives of everybody around him fell apart. Sam’s family moved away, got scattered and dissolved in the noises of the big city. His own life fell apart as if Ricky’s sunny nature had been guarding him from some invisible menace, a sea of grief that always existed within him.

It was nearly dark, Sam took one last look back at the sea, the old Lighthouse in the distance blinked at him.

“Goodnight,” Sam said.

The Lighthouse blinked back its “goodnight, son!”

A rotten wooden board nailed the doors shut. Since the new Lifeguards’ post had been built much further, where the beach was more crowded, this old shack stood completely unwanted and forgotten. Sam remembered it well.

He had no trouble ripping the board from the door, it gave in easily. Sam expected the cops to show up, but none did. He inspected the place by the light of his phone. Thought the air reeked of mould, and everything was covered in cobwebs and dust, it was just the same. Nobody bothered to clear the place after Ricky’s death. There was even a set of lifeguard’s binoculars hanging on the wall, along with other bits and bobs, the gifts of the sea. Sam smiled. Amazing how teenage punks hadn’t wrecked it!

Sam was drained of all strength, tired of making his way back through the miles and miles he had ran to escape his memories. He laid down on the shabby little mould-covered couch, grabbed a dirty beach towel from the floor, wrapped into the dust, moth cocoons and cobwebs, and laid shivering in the cool, moist air. His body showed more feeling than his soul did. He was numb, unable to feel. The pills worked well; they took away the notion of pain, although the pain was still there. He couldn’t access it, the door to his pain had been nailed shut with a rotten wooden board and some rusty old nails.

Sam spent the night shaking; the cool fog coming from the sea was nearly unbearable. His teeth chattered, and bones ached. He crawled out into the sunrise and laid on the sand, crouched in a foetal position, until the warm sunlight soothed his freezing body. He was a child born before his time, lying in a warm incubator, waiting until he’s grown and ready to move into the world anew.

He got up at the sight of the first joggers. Do they ever sleep? Sam wondered, or do they just keep running from evening-to night-to the light of day?

The sun burned hotter every minute. The sea was wonderful, clear, calm, and inviting. Sam waded into the water with his clothes on. He didn’t care. He stopped caring a long time ago. His mundane actions had become automatic; you get up at the sound of the alarm, you pee, brush your teeth, shower, eat cereal, drink coffee, iron clothes, get dressed, take the train downtown, work nine-to-five, back on the train, back home, chores, microwave dinner with netflicks, brush teeth, shower, sleep. Shopping, drinking, and sleeping his weekends away. Smoking on the balcony. That’s it. He didn’t care.

The ice-cold water stung his body with a thousand tiny needles.

“Murderer. Why did you take him? He loved you,” Sam whispered to the sea, while it rocked him in its arms, back and forth, a cruel, cold mother, devouring her children. And yet, Sam loved her.

He got out the water, only to lay in the sand, until his clothes got dry. The heatwave went on. When people began to stare, Sam finally got up. He waited until no one passed, then he crawled back into the shack. The official plan was to check out if this place still existed. Afterward Sam would’ve gone to the only hotel in town, a pathetic refuge for desperate tourists. Yet, he sat staring at the sea until his stomach rumbled. He got up, took his stuff, and walked outside. The further away from the lifeguard’s shack, the number he felt. Sam walked into the nearest mini market, with the early morning shoppers staring at his sand-covered clothes.

“Are you alright, sir?” The cashier, a freckled teen asked between the beeps of the groceries he scanned.

“I’m good,” Sam replied with a smile. What else could he say?! I’m not alright, because my life has been broken ever since I saw my cousin’s dead body, and now I’ve returned to join him?! No, people didn’t like to hear the truth. Even the very kind ones were not ready to carry someone else’s load. That Sam had learned early on. Usually they smiled politely, recommended a good therapist, and left as soon as they could.

“I’m good” was the right answer.

Was he planning to end his life? Yes, Sam was always planning to end his life. Luckily, his plans usually fell apart.

This time he lingered; the memories of those summer days here with Ricky distracted him. He wanted to stay in the little shack just a bit longer. Though it was a cold and miserable place, the walls of the shack had absorbed all the sunshine and boyish laughter from the best summers Sam ever lived. Nostalgia is a bitch.

Sam spent the rest of the day sitting on the beach and feasting on junk food. He took off his clothes and sat on the old towel wearing only his trunks. At least people stopped staring at him. Pretending to be normal felt good. He was a tourist on vacation, just like everybody else here. He laid in the sun, took many swims, thought of absolutely nothing important, only about the childish stuff. The shape of clouds, the wind changing, the softness of the sand.

When the evening chills crept upon the beach, and the people were gone, Sam went back into the shack. He checked his phone. Took a big gulp from the bottle of whiskey he bought. His office, his Mom, even his ex Linda, all have tried to reach him. Sam smirked and shook his head. Took another gulp and called Linda. He was curious. What could she possibly say?

Linda did what Linda does best - she yelled. Linda had yelled when he caught her sleeping with the neighbour. Sam got home early, because the air conditioner broke down (as it did every summer), and the heat in the office got unbearable.

Sam was such an idiot! He heard Linda’s screaming and he thought she was in pain; he ran up the stairs only to find her climaxing on top of the other guy. Was it the heat or the running, or the sight, but Sam rushed into the bathroom and threw up a couple of times. Afterward he sat on the bathroom floor listening as the guy left, and Linda yelled at Sam behind the bathroom door. Yes, she yelled how this was all his fault. How she’s tired of living with a nine-to-five-zombie, a numb corpse instead of a man. How she’s a Latina, and she needed passion. LA-TI-NA, she spelled out yelling. Then she took her stuff (still yelling!) and left.

 Sam took his prescribed pill, played with the rattling plastic bottle of those things. The usual numbness took over and he fell asleep on the bathroom floor.

This time Linda yelled how everybody was freaked out by his absence, how his Mom, and his boss had called Linda, how tired she was from all this suicidal shit. Sam endured her verbal eruption, then calmly explained that he was out of town for a couple of days.

“I’m good,” he added. When she went on rattling like a bottle of pills, Sam hung up. He took the pills from his bag, opened the bottle, and let them fall, bouncing against the floor cheerfully. Fuck off Linda, fuck off Xanax.

Another gulp of whiskey. The sunset blazed like a flame. Burning bridges was easy when your life had been hell.

At the hour of dusk when the sea and the sky melted into one shade of grey, Sam decided it was the right time. No people on the beach. He’d just walk forward until he’ll move into the sky.

 He lit up a candle he bought today because the shack had no electricity. The moment felt reverent, it was his funeral. He deserved a nice candle. But before he walked out, he saw one of those late-night swimmers taking clothes off on the water’s edge. Damn! Sam didn’t need a witness. It’s okay, he could wait. The lighthouse blinked in the distance. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Sam took the dusty binoculars off the wall.  He observed the swimmer. It was a woman. She had left only her bikini bottom on. The woman went swimming topless. Sam moved closer to the window, to get a better angle. At least some fun before he left this world, Sam’s drunk belly shook in laughter.

The woman was gorgeous. She walked into the grey sea-sky instead of Sam. She swam further and further. She struggled from exhaustion, still she went on. Sam realized; the woman wanted to take his place. Without thinking, Sam ran to the sea.

Read part 2 here!