Awake [ L.T Short Story ]

b. grayson fitzgerald

        I'd constantly carried the fear of sleeping. There remained the haunting imagery of a hazed, distorted forest. The pines looming and billowing and vaporing songs of a wind storm above my head. I would sulk forward. Nearly as sluggish as molasses dripping from a mason jar. My heart pounding its old brag. I am I am I am. Soon, everything became a blur of white, screeching noise. Static is all there is to be seen. Then, I wake up. Petrified and alone with a cool sweat dampening my forehead, collarbones, slipping, sliding down my blistering cheeks.

       I had surely assumed I was dead once the scenery became a blank slate. Blind or deaf, maybe. Either outcome was as dreadful as the other.

       This unfaltering dream had occurred every evening since my grandmother passed. I figured it must be happening because I was terrified of death. Seeing her's could have triggered the phobia I'd attempted to fold into the depths of my mind. Though, that was two years previous.

        To compensate for my inability to rest, I enjoyed trekking to the seaside in the resigning of night. The morning tide brought a sense of relief. I felt the choking darkness couldn't reach me during dawn.

        This morning was no exception.  

        I gathered my knees to my chest and absentmindedly stared at the waves as they arched and folded and crashed into one another. My vision zoning and rezoning from the sun's half light as I repetitively brushed my hand across the blue and green checkered blanket to rid of the yellowed sand that seeped its way inside the fabric's creases. After doing so, I felt a blistering liquid soak my bare calf.

        "Shit." I hissed. It was the coffee I brought.

         It stung like hell. I  viciously rubbed the blanket's corner on my leg to absorb the spill.

        "Need a napkin?" A man asked. I looked upward spotting a boy pulling a cream-colored cloth from his blue jean's left pocket.

        I simply nodded as reply and grabbed it from his hand. I continued to dab the coffee away until it was completely diminished. The only evidence of it tipping over was an eye sore of a stain on a diagonal of the beach blanket.

        "Thank you." I replied.

        He grinned warmly as response and looked distractedly from either side of him. "Hey, um, it's quite lonely out here . . . mind if I join you?" The boy probed.

        I pondered for a moment. He appeared around my age. Maybe a year or so younger. Brunet  with eyes the shade of sea glass. It does get a bit lonesome out here after a while . . . Besides, any man who carries around napkins can't be all that menacing.

        "I understand how queer and possibly forward this may seem, but I'm honestly in no position to be alone with my thoughts." He added. Attempting to encourage my trust.

        "I suppose so." I answered and patted the bare spot adjacent from me. He sat with his legs outstretched in front of him.

        A few minutes passed, no words were spoken. With the exception of myself racking my brain to try and strike up a conversation. It was sprouting into something uncomfortable until he asked for my name.

        "Malia. Malia North."

        "Brooks."

        "Nice name." I said.

        "Likewise, Malia."

        Now it's succumb to awkwardness. I glanced downward thinking of how not to be such a lousy conversationalist.

        "What's with the napkins?" Is all I could come up with.

        "Oh. Those." He laughed a bit. "Well, you see, no matter where I am or who I'm with, someone never fails to spill something. It sounds ludicrous, I know, however I'm being honest."

        "So, you just began to carry around spare napkins?"

        "Now you've got it." He smiled in a toothy manner.

        The conversation grew stout. Stouter than I would have opted for.

        Brooks balanced on the back of his elbows, leaned his head backwards and looked aside him. I believe we were both in search of another initial start to a conversation.

        "So, why are you out here? I'm not used to accompaniment this early in the morning." I attempted as the summer wind began to blow my hair around, forming a suffocating barrier around my neck.

        He crept his knees up to his chest. "Well. The better question is why you were out here first." Brooks answered.

        "Can't sleep." I paused. "Now, what brings you to the seaside?"

        "Parents. They seem to find leisure in barking at each other every waking hour." His eyes became droopy and disturbed and full of horrendous nostalgia.

        "I'm sorry."

        "I am as well."

        I started tracing spheres around the opening of the coffee mug I brought. After a few minutes of deafening silence, I wedged the cup in the sandy grain.

        I thought about trying to speak again, but he stood and dusted off the back of his pants.

        I didn't say a word. I simply observed him as he strolled to the tide.

        Eventually, I walked over to him. He said he was lonely previously, I'm not going to be responsible for making him more depressed.

        "Slipping away from your problems doesn't affect that it still remains." He said once I was only a few inches from him.

        "You'd make a spectacular fortune cookie." I replied teasingly.

        He threw his head back and laughed. "Well, I imagine that's what we become when we are forced to endure things we'd rather avoid."

        "Seriously, go write a damn book of encouragements or something." I added.

        "You sure are a character, North."

        "So I've been told, uh . . ." I realized he never told me his last name.

        "Fitzgerald."

        "Fitzgerald. Like Francis Scott." I nodded understandingly. That should prove to be easy to remember.

        "Precisely." Brooks agreed.

        We began to stare at the horizon. Awaiting a new beginning as the sun rose hesitantly from its hidden oasis. Its light reflected off the darkened water creating something truly holographic.