Unless (LGBTQ+ BxB Completed Novel)

1: What's the story, morning glory?

Rockaway Beach, New York. 

(3 am)

The sudden pull of the ocean takes me by surprise—and I thought I was an excellent swimmer. Go figure. What started off as a whimsical self-dare is turning into my last wrong choice. I'm sinking, dragged to the bottom of this dark vastness. Fire filling my lungs as if freaking Poseidon himself was gripping and squeezing my chest.

This ocean is reluctant to take any more of my bullshit, so it shoves inside my mouth, invading every aching cell of my reckless body. 

Damn it, I shouldn't have smoked weed to begin with. I'm so high, the seabed seems alive. There are creatures in here waiting for my demise. They ache to feed on the remains of my wistful sadness.

 I'm also drunk. Part of me knows it is not possible for my stomach to be brimming with flotsam, but this impending heaviness begs to differ—I'm a shipwreck after all. Rejected and worthless: a dying mess.

Do I care? Not much. 

Will someone miss me? I doubt it—being the complete asshole I've proven to be, especially to Candace. I've tried to make it work, failing, of course. She is too much for me to handle. So damn conceited. Even at our finest, we wouldn't make sense. Not then, definitely not now.

It's hurting real bad; my eyes sting like hell, rebelling on the saltiness and debris.

 Is this what dying feels like? That you are alone and afraid in the arms of this dark current. That you realize how none of this was what you wanted as your last breath flutters out of your chest and bubbles out into a world that doesn't belong to you anymore.

Did I want to kill myself? Nah, guess one dumb choice led to another, then another, and then, after an entire bottle of Jägermeister, nothing mattered anymore, at least no more than it has for these past six months. A tiny part of me wants to be brave in my last moments—so I convince myself it's better to leave with my head held high rather than deal with this crippling sorrow that's fueling whatever I am cowering from.

As time runs out, my hollow, gurgling sobs give way to incoherent longings. I'm going to miss my Yamaha, bet they don't have motorbikes where I'm headed. The one thing that helped against this void was the wind slapping my cheeks every time I took it for a spin. I haven't been a good example of this living business. Ghosting rather than existing, blurring away the days, one drag at a time. Guess that rules out Heaven for me.

I'm also going to miss my canvases and brushes; painting is my only outlet, slipping inside the eye of my mind every time reality gets, well... too freaking real—each brushstroke allowing me to find a better place to hide.

I'm so angry at myself, should've thought this through. I don't even know why I went into the water. Now it's too late to fix this conundrum. To fix me.

All my vain attempts at surfacing cave at such realization, so I stop and let myself fade away with a thousand stars up above the night sky.

***

Rockaway Beach, New York. 

(6:45 am)

Dang, I am frozen solid. 

I thought Hell would scald; then again, I can confirm that the path to it is paved with good intentions. I didn't want to hurt anyone by being so off these past months, but ended up doing so, anyway. My actions led to bad outcomes; that's a fact. Even though being dead is pretty much as bad an outcome as any, there's still my old nagging desire to stir things up a little, daring me to open my eyes.