SWIM Book 1 (Complete three-hundred pages)

DAY 41.3

Friday, December 29, 2017

I

n the middle of the night I snored myself awake in the living room surrounded by boys all drunkenly snoring on the carpet floor. I wobbled my way off the couch to the nearest master bedroom that Brett usually slept in on the fourth floor. The door was open, I entered, and locked the door behind me. I walked to the bed, and doused myself in bed sheets with Brett's smell.

I cried into the pillows, and blamed myself for Craig's death that I saw in my nightmares. I blamed myself for ruining the balance of this brittle household.

I even blamed myself for getting trapped here.

I want to get out of here. I want to go home. I want to go back to my normal life in my normal house with my normal parents. I miss my phone, I miss the Internet, I miss Spotify—I miss food, I miss not being afraid to drink water. I want to go to school. I want to walk through the paseos between our houses in the planned communities, look at the trees and the flowers and the butterflies that were always there.

I fear the entire Earth has been flooded. By God, by science, by the ice caps melting, by the men on Earth smoking.

I fear I will never see a movie in theaters again. I fear I will never make a new friend again. I miss the luxury to lose old friends and know I can always make new ones. I fear I will never have an adult life like the one I'd longed for: a mature relationship with a mature man who was willing to be a hard worker and balance his work with a loving heart that always had for his family. I fear I will never experience the wonders and the pains of having a child. I used to care if I had a girl instead of a boy, but now, I fear in the deepest part of my heart that I had been too picky about my life.

I understand that girl Anne Frank now, at least I can relate better, on the account of seeing the future as less than a sure thing. . . My future was hanging on a thin thread, a string in the air, not even a probability.

Being the woman of this house, I feel I am the underdog when it comes to my sphere of influence. Jack calls the shots because Travis's loyalty to him makes Jack's power that of two men instead of one. And because Brett and George would never join forces due to their dissimilarities to each other, Brett and George are each only one vote against Jack's double-vote influence.

My vote counts for nothing. I am a cuckolder to Jack, and neither of the other boys trust me. I am a ghost in this house, more alone than a stranger in a sea of passersby. I have the premonition that I will be the first to die, and the feeling that no one will care. I'll be one less mouth to leach off our scouring food supply. The pantries looked bleak, and we've been eating cereal and oatmeal without milk for a week. I'd forgotten the crunch of a fruit or vegetable, and vitamins were their only compensation.

I was the prettiest girl in my school. I was even the richest girl in my school. I must gloat, my grades were top-notch for a girl who would have no trouble finding a rich husband. (I would presumably meet him in Harvard.) And even if I chose never to marry, my inheritance would keep me a queen if I ever chose to liquidate my parents' assets. Fashion brands had begun to sponsor me for my millions of Instagram subscribers, and I was wearing Coach in my photos to appease the company that paid me—even when I'd rather wear my Versace or Prada sunglasses.

Boys swooned over me, girls envied me, and yet I had always stayed true to my boy Jack. . . at least for the beautiful times we shared.

I don't know how hunger, drunkenness, loneliness and fear of death came over me. I don't know how I cheated on Jack with Craig. I loved Jack.

I rolled my head on Brett's wet pillows that were soaked in my tears. In truth I would continue to drink alcohol to calm my thirst and avoid the unknown toxicity of the water in the housing pipes. I would see where my hunger and drunkenness takes us—as I wonder where Craig is, and as this house gets smaller and smaller.