#hopefykly it's not too pretentious sounding idk how to write good

[dansmithsdoomdays]

First part of first draft of a short story for my Honors US Lit class. Of course I had to write about Dan, so it's drawing inspiration from the Bad Blood and Flaws music video, as well as Haunt and Sleepsong. Dan wakes up on a beach, unknowingly to himself as a ghost, and has to figure out what has happened and will eventually find himself back on the cliffs above the sea, discovering that's where he jumped from and why he did what he did. Amazing how writing about something you're interested in can make you so much more motivated.

The waves steadily beat against the distant cliff side. Water laps up onto the sand of the beach, reaching my fingertips, threatening to encroach upon me closer as the tide begins to come in. The air is heavy with salt and humidity, which have collected on my skin. I sit up, my joints cracking and my muscles protesting at the change of position, and brush sand off the back of my arms, and attempt to clear it from the collar of my jacket.

“What time is it,” I think to myself.

I look towards the sky, grey and cloud filled, giving me no evidence to the question I ponder. There's a chill in the air, and I unconsciously pull my jacket sleeves down my hands. I run my hands through my hair, which is tangled and matted. It must have gotten wet at some point, since salt has left behind a residue on the strands, and sand still sticks to the nape of my neck. I push up my glasses, wondering how they somehow have stayed on my face.

Wait. Since when do I wear glasses? I've had bad eyesight since I was a child, but I've almost always worn contacts. I always thought my glasses looked bad on me.

I look around at my surroundings, as if a lonely pile of rocks, or a few search and rescue boats in the distance will help solve my mystery.

I wonder who they're looking for. I pity the poor soul who fell into the bay on a day like this. Tourists come to sightsee, and every winter inevitably one will fall off the cliffs after messing around and will have to be dragged out. If they're lucky, that is. While part of the cliffs are safe for diving, the cliffs closer to me are prone to breaking, and the water below is notoriously deep and murky, scattered with jagged rocks that could tear open your leg if you fell onto it. I've seen it happen.

As I reminisce on memories of my earlier youth spent on the beach, a thought occurs to me.

“Where am I?”

I know this area. I've been to it many times. I have good and bad memories of time spent here. But I cannot think of where exactly I am. Suddenly, the scenery looks more foreign, the sea birds’ calls more ominous. My slightly damp letterman jacket is no longer keeping me warm. I run my hands through my hair once more.

I better go home, I guess? I don't know where I am, or why I'm here, but I guess that's the best next course of action, right?

But, wait, where is home either?

I rack my brain, frantically pulling at the longer dark brown hair atop my head, and dragging my fingers through my short undercut

Why can't I remember? What is happening? Do I even know who I am?

I pat my pockets, hoping to find a clue to jog my brain. I try not to think about the fact that at the moment my own name is escaping me, that somehow my own identity is just… not there… somehow. I feel something in my jeans, a wallet, an ID. Thank god.

“Daniel C. Smith”

Oh yeah. How could I forget (I still don't remember and that terrifies me, but once again, avoiding the thought).

And here's my address, “26 Church Hill, Arnside, Carnforth.” Of course it is (Is it?). (FYI: real place, definitely not dans real address. I just found a random town in England that was by the sea and some cliffs and took the address of some apartment buildings)

I struggle to get up into my feet. My bones feel like I had been laying on the sand for years (How long had I been here?), and I stretch my back and arms. Looking around, I walk away from the waves and towards what looks like a main road. There's a store front of a liquor store and a bakery, and what looks like a few boutiques. A lady walking a small dog walks by, the dog stopping to stare and bark at me, the lady annoyed and hurried to quiet him and keep going.

As I walk down the road, I figure my best option is to keep going and hoping that it will lead me to meet up with my street. I don't recognize anything, but everything feels achingly familiar, like I had been here many years ago on holiday as a child, before my memory could concretely store what I saw. I shuffle along, trying not to notice the ache in my body, the headache pounding in my temples, the thoughts circling my brain like an albatross over the sea.