tw : death, death of a loved one, drowning mentions, depictions of intrusive thoughts, depictions of anxiety & a whole lot of needless melodrama.
the evidence of the ocean’s affair with the cliff is obvious: sea foam speckles the sharp gray stones, which are crusted with seaweed and creatures that brace themselves as the waves crash over them. rohan can feel the cool mist spray in his face as water meets bluff and he crouches at the edge; the vertigo isn’t much better the second time, and the mid-morning drizzle soaks through the thin material of his sweater.
he plants his palm against the slick grass below him, steadying himself against the wind.
there are other options. he could take up running; or one of those crafty hobbies that require the use of fine motor skills, like model ships. there is therapy, or calling a friend. surely someone in his life would’ve understood the anxiety that’s bubbling under his skin before he dug his nails in to tear it out himself.
but rohan wants to be alone right now. the people who surround him are part of the problem. keeping up with them has exhausted his well of emotional energy. for years he’s lived separate from the rest of the world rather than risk coming face to face with his grief, one small boat in the wide ocean. chile has cloaked him with a second chance for companionship. one that he didn’t ask for. one that rohan thinks he doesn’t want.
he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
don’t they know he doesn’t know what he’s doing ?
… will he forget the sound of their voices, too ?
he’s not a social person. he’s tired. he’s overwhelmed. he feels guilty, and he’s full of unreasonable fears and expectations that he put there himself. he insists he’s fine and he’s not lonely even though it isn’t true; he’s been surrounded by people most of his life, and only recently found himself placed in the self-inflicted isolation that’s been gnawing at his already fragile mental state.
but he’s not ready to accept his grief yet. if he accepts it then it’s real. every bad thought he’s had is true. he doesn’t want to answer anymore questions.
and then there’s his dad.
it shouldn’t matter, it’s his dad.
a little warning would’ve been nice.
a little warning would’ve made no difference.
he’s struggling with the odysseus and the winter weather that’s wreaking havoc on her old bones, marooning her to shore for as long as it takes him to fix it. and the big red circle marring the august page of his calendar, and all the feelings he never unpacked about the accident── which seem to be closer to the surface this year than they have over the last half-decade, about his dead sister, about his living one, about the state of their family
he’s been trapped in storms, on land, with people and no escape for over a month. yes, he wants to do this alone. he thinks that will make things better. rohan feels claustrophobic, and it’s making his head spin. it’s making him stupid. it’s making him impulsive.
anything to turn it off.
he takes a deep breath as he stands up, exhaling shakily. his hands comb back through his hair and it sticks against his forehead, the back of his neck, wet and icy and dripping down his spine. he reassures his nerves: last time they made it out unscathed. last time he had javi to worry about, too── those excruciating few seconds between when his friend jumped and when he hit the water, when rohan’s anxious heart stopped beating entirely. it’s proof of what he thinks about his independence. he will be fine because there’s nobody else here to fret over. there’s also nobody else here to care if something goes wrong.
they’re going to die too. all of them. then what ?
can’t survive that again── can’t mourn everybody── can’t even properly mourn people he’s already lost. gotta find a way around it.
“ why won’t you come home ? “
vicious thoughts and voices rattle around inside his head like an orchestra that’s out of tune, and none of the musicians will stop for air. he can’t focus. he’s irritable. he feels like he hasn’t slept in days. he wants them quiet and he knows he can drown them, even if just for a minute.
“ ──so tired of begging you to come to us. “
he’s a bad son.
he’s a bad person.
maybe he’s doing it on purpose.
he should have known after five years the half-assed excuses and last minute cancellations would catch up with him. he didn’t think it would be now. he isn’t ready. the mistakes he’s made still dangle in front of him while he’s fixed in place. over and over, in emotional purgatory, he watches the replay. he can’t change the past, and yet it haunts him all the same.
the worst part is he can’t shut it off. normally he shuts it off. it’s not working this time.
he doesn’t want him here. not yet. not now. not ever.
“ i should get to be a part of the new life you’ve built. “
. . .please don’t say it like that──
it’s his dad, who still remembers to call every sunday even though rohan rarely remembers to pick up. his dad, who always leaves a voicemail asking him to call him back. his dad who, in the most recent picture he’s seen, has more grey hair and wrinkles than when rohan saw him last.
rohan misses him. he wants to see him again. he wants to see his sister, too, though he thinks that metaphorical ship has sailed.
they’re still going to die.
it’s inevitable──
──and then what ?
. . .
then what, rohan ?
can’t do it, not again. . .
he drags his palms across his damp face, blinking condensation from his eyelashes. the harsh wind tears at his skin and clothes despite the relative calmness of the water below. he’s desperate for that serenity. once he breaks the surface and disappears under the still, dark water, everything will be silent. right now it’s unbearably loud. he can’t think. he needs to think.
. . . but what if he’s wasting valuable time ?
── . . . what if he’s wasted the last five years ?
what if he didn’t have to be so lonely ?
with shaky hands, he drags his sweater over his head. rohan discards it, and wherever it ends up, he’s not present enough to pay attention. jumping into the water won’t stop his father from boarding a plane in a few weeks, but that doesn’t matter. all rohan wants is for everything to be quiet, just for a second, just so he can relax, because he can never relax, not when everything is pressing in on him on all sides.
his dad’s old.
they only have so much time, and maybe he’s wasted it
for nothing
because he’s immature. he’s selfish. he couldn’t step away from his own pain
──leave it.
he shuffles backwards. the ground is soaked through, much like him, and he prays he doesn’t slip. he’ll deal with everything afterwards. once he can think clearly again, it will be easier.
before he can reconsider, rohan throws his scrawny figure with as much force as he can over the edge, plummeting towards the tranquil ocean.
. . .
. . .
. . .
the fall feels longer this time. it happens in slow motion, his heart in his throat. he’s suspended in mid-air── is this it ? is everything over ?── and then he crashes into the water.
. . .
. . .
he can’t move. his arms and legs won’t listen. his body needs a moment to recover from the fall. he floats motionlessly, heart pounding, eyes screwed shut, lungs screaming.
. . .
time works different down here. all he knows is numb and dark, and the ocean is vast and unfeeling and it wraps him in a familiar comfort. it seeps into his bones, and the bitter, winter cold makes him feel lethargic. something gently tries to pull him under, yanking at his heavy clothes, it’s siren song encouraging him not to resist it.
. . .
. . .
. . .
he likes the feeling of brushing up right next to it, likes that it brings him closer to the peace he craves so badly, but rohan doesn’t want to die. drowning terrifies him. it’s the end of the story, and he’s been running from his fear of the reaper since he first came into contact with it almost six years ago. the tide pushes him, and the opportunity presents itself to let go, but no matter how tempting it is to sink to the bottom and let the scavengers have their way with what’s left of him, he fights it without thought.
. . .
. . .
when he regains control of his arms, rohan claws his way to the surface, and inhales air and salt water with a sputtering cough when he breaks the waves. the cold has drained him entirely; his teeth chatter and limbs tremble with each movement, but it worked.
moving on autopilot, he works with the ebb of the current to carry his wiry frame back to shore.
. . .
��� . . .
it’s quiet.
his head feels clearer as he presses a towel against his face. his heart pounds violently inside his ribcage and his muscles ache from the cold and the impact from the water and none of it feels good, but the physical sensations are a welcome interruption from his catastrophizing.
he scans over his thoughts like one might pick through the wreckage of a burnt building: he looks for salvageable pieces of the mess, ideas that make sense. rohan takes inventory of what’s left as the panic starts to subside.
. . .
. . .
. . .
it's easier now to stamp out things he doesn't want to think about. when an anxious thought starts to pop up, he focuses instead about the cool air that singes his throat with each uneven inhale, and the material of his shirt freezing to his skin. the distraction of discomfort is a relief, and he uses it to seal off his well of emotions instead of looking at what's left rotting there, untouched for years.
his movements are robotic and hurried as he pulls on dry, warm clothes; muttering about how it’s fucking cold and that really fucking hurt and who’s fucking idea was that anyway ? oh yeah, yours, dumbass. when finally, he’s able to get a deep breath, tension melts from his shoulders. rohan does it again, and again, savouring the momentary control he has over his own thoughts── an occurrence so rare, he doesn’t want to give it up.
afterwards. he’ll deal with everything afterwards.
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