The Boy Who Never Drowned (#JustWriteIt) #Wattys2015

Chapter Seven

I had never seen anyone die before. I had seen people who wish they were dead, corpses of the persons they once were, but no one who had actually gone and done it. I had met no one who had the bravery, the stupidity, the recklessness. Maybe I had met no one who had wanted to die.

I was numb, in all senses. I was numb to the cold. My hands were numb, my eyes were numb, my mind was numb. No trace of thoughts, my eyes saw blackness but I thought nothing of it. I was floating in a zero gravity space inside my own head, looking from my own eyes and seeing nothing.

A misty ghost floated to my vision, wavering in front of me like it was waiting. There was no wind.

"You alright, son?" A sailor stood to the left of me, a cigarette hanging straight as a pole from between his swollen lips. I opened my mouth, but there is no sound in zero gravity. "Looks like the moon's disappeared. Coulda' sworn I saw it a minute ago. Those damn clouds, ey? It's a shame, come all this way and no bloody moon. Nothing to write home about." He sniffed aggressively, his next words trapped in a thick cloud of smoke settling in his throat. "Fucking miracle how I got on, you'know. I'm not even a sailor, stole the outfit from some rich kid. Duck soup it was. Very nice material if I do say so myself. Feels like a fucking cuddle." He cackled, pulling down the sleeves and adjusting the collar as if looking in a mirror. He sniffed again. "You won't tell no one though." This was not a question. "You some idiot? S'alright if you are. My sister's an idiot, proper basket case. I told her I'd bring her here. Obviously not physically, she'd try and eat the door knobs. Nah, she's here." He punched his chest with a big fisted hand, dirtied with black oil, or coal, or some paint. He breathed in, smiling with a set of stained teeth. He looked over at me. We were parallel, and he swung his head over his shoulder, leaning his neck on the shoulder pad. He had big dimples like he'd stolen two of the moon's craters. "Probably wonderin' why someone like me is talkin' to someone like you. Yeah, probably. Well its international waters innit. Anything goes, my friend. That's what we are, friends, united by this great ship. Yeah. I'm gonna stay in America. I'm afraid I've missed the boat, if you get the joke, back in England. Moving to the city was a fucking joke. I saw red for years. Now I just see a brand new future; the USA." He painted a picture with his hands, his gestures, using the sullen ocean as a canvas in which to plan his life. A blueprint where all dreams would materialise into reality. "I'll be a banker, I heard they're doing well. Yeah. I reckon I would be good at handling some guy's money. Mother always told me I was reliable. Then I'll invest it. I dunno in what, but they'll be somethin'. I'll meet some beautiful American bird and when I'm rich enough, I'll marry her. And she'll wake me up with a fuckin' roast dinner in the mornings. Beef and roast potatoes. I'll move near the countryside though. Yeah. Back to the farm and I won't need no job. Because I'll have all the money in the world.

"Then, when I'm rich and famous, I'm gonna give this damn uniform back to the boy in the stuffed shirt, and bring my sister and my mother to my mansion. I'll have negros serving my hand and foot. I'll fix her. I'll get that medicine and she'll be able to see. Yeah. I can see it. I can fucking see it." He lowered his hands, hesitating, suddenly very aware of my silent presence. "Might as well have a shot at it. Never say die." And he sucked the life from the remainder of his cigarette and let it fall.

That was when it happened. The crash.