Scribbles and Drabbles

Black Spot Drabble 2

A/N: I thought I had another drabble up with this motif, but I can't see it. Oh well, I like the idea, and it regularly returns to me so enjoy. 

Triggers: Suicide - he expects to die but gets 'saved', Blackmail, references to revenge porn.

A black dot rested on Christoper's palm, the same as his father and his father before him. A curse passed down from father to son, appearing on the woman of a line when no men breathed. When Doctors saw it, they'd get concerned, but there was no healthy or medical reason for it, only superstitions told in hushed tones and joked about sarcastically at family dinners when cousins and in-laws failed to understand the weight of it. Fools believed in cruses now. 

His phone buzzed. Blackmail pictures filtered through, threatening to spread them wide and far if it didn't comply. Bile bubbled in the back of his throat. 

He dropped the device into the water. It landed with a sharp plopping sound. The water took it away and sank it into the sandy bed before. It wouldn't make the blackmail go away. It wouldn't change things to stop this all from happening in the first place. It stopped him from facing how he looked at his lowest. It stopped them from contacting him to drag him lower into their depraved desires and hopes. They wanted to ruin him, and being obedient wouldn't save him. 

Maybe fools believed in curses, but what made did that make someone who hoped the old stories were true? Was he a desperate child, clinging to the idea that he could escape the monsters lurking in the shadows? Or simply a young man ready to give up? 

His father would be rolling in his grave at the fact he was considering this. Generations of his family had lived by a simple but strict code. 'Don't enter the water.'

Living inland helped dim the call to swim. Standing on the pier looking out at the distant horizon, the lure to jump tugged at his chest. It was a hook link buried into his chest that left him obsessed with the ocean as a child. The tales of people roaming the seas to explore new places and face dangers made sense staring into the beyond. Something in his blood pounded with it, the want, the desire, the need to see what the ocean could offer and more. Seafaring lived in his blood. The salt burned his cheeks, and he pulled his coat closer to himself. 

Either he died, or not. The difference didn't matter. The age of exploring and adventuring ended centuries ago. Now was the age of the internet. Now was the age of people taking advantage of you in your intimate moments and trying to ruin you forever more. 

The flash of the images he saw filled his mind. He'd trusted them. He'd let them use him. If this didn't work, he'd have no life regardless. Ruined or chained to the whim of an abusive man, which would be worse? Was it so surprising that he wanted a third opinion?

He gave a silent prayer to ask his father and grandfather for forgiveness.

He fell backwards off the pier.

The water engulfed him greedily, hands tugging and dragging him under the salt spray. The ice stabbed into his muscles, and the air in his lungs escaped from the shock of it. He sunk. Dying hurt more than he thought it would. His chest ached. 

Something twisted in his chest. Death, it was then. No last flare of life buried, no last willing fight survived. Despite the pain, the station gave a sense of peace to it all. His life spiralled out of control due to forces outside of his control but in death; he'd had a choice. In death, there was freedom. Everything turned to lead as his limb froze in the water. 

The spot on his hand turned warm. 

His eyes hurt in the salt water. It was black. He couldn't see anything. His hand fast became too hot as it throbbed. He twisted, body unwilling to cooperate as oxygen faded. A light grew above him. The sleepy gaze disappeared into awareness as he woke.