The wind blew at his skin as the first finger of sunlight stretched over the horizon, painting the sky in an array of yellow, orange and pink. The ocean sang, calm waves splashing onto the shore. He heaved a sigh as he trudged barefooted across the cool sand, not yet warmed by the sun. The water caught the flecks of sunlight, glimmering like a thousand stars, and his stomach twisted.
He hoped the ocean would breathe peace into him. And he held onto that hope like a torch in the darkness. He reached for the light.
The ocean, a swath of deep grey and icy blue, beckoned him, the waves calling his name. He stepped onto the wet sand, tears prickling his eyes as the wave washed past his ankles. The quiet there unsettled him. Noise had followed him and haunted him since he was a child. Most piercing of all was the scream of his violent mother. He pinched his eyes shut, drawing in the salty scent of the sea. When he opened them, he peered at his fragmented reflection in the near-still water. His damaged inner child stared back. Tears dribbled his cheeks.
—
“Will my father ever come back for me?” he asked his mother at aged 10 one evening after school.
The house reeked of cigarettes and alcohol. Mould grew up the tar-stained walls like a grotesque painting and his stomach rumbled from the lack of food in the fridge. Rain battered the window, and the house groaned from the wind.
His mother clutched an empty wine bottle in her hand, sitting on a worn, mildew-infested couch, lolled her head to the side, arching her brow at him. “Stupid boy. Why would he come back for you, Will?” Her raspy voice slid along his bones and his blood spiked with fear.
The boy swallowed the bile burning the back of his throat. “All of my friends have their dads. I’m the only one who doesn’t,” he said, voice trembling.
She let out a guttural growl and hurtled the wine bottle at him. He yelped and ducked, flinching as the bottle smashed against the wall behind him, and a shard of glass sliced across his ankle. Blood stained the carpet as he sobbed.
“Now look what you’ve done?” his mother said, groaning. “You better clean out the stain.”
She hauled herself off the dirty couch and stumbled past him, but not before slapping him on the side of his head. His lip quivered, and he raced into his room, closing the door. His bed was his only safe space. He gripped the blanket and let the tears fall.
—
Now he thought about how his quest for peace led him to Tahiti. With its clear, warm, ever blue waters, and quiet serenity, he believed he would find his peace soon. But the demons still haunted him, buried deep in the marrow of his bones, for he deflected every memory or thought of his past. Will knew he had to face his demons. Otherwise, their claws would remain. But the memory of his mother tossing the bottle at his head sent his heart hammering against his chest. His stomach churned. His pulse thrummed in his ears. Fear was a familiar, unwanted friend that lingered anyway.
He smoothed his wetsuit and waded out into the ocean. The water was cool on his skin as he pulled his goggles over his eyes and his fins on his feet. His breath whooshed in his ears as he breathed through the snorkel and swam further out into the lagoon.
The white sand transformed into a jungle of coral reefs. Coral and sea anemones swayed in the gentle current. Bright orange and purple schools of fish darted back and forth below him. Crabs scuttled across the rocks on the seabed, foraging for shrimp. His thundering heart slowed. He wanted to lose himself in the world below.
That’s when a sound reverberated through the blue. A whale singing. The deep pitch resonated in his chest, and he stopped kicking his fins, letting the sound consume his very being. Another whale joined in, and another, until there was a cacophony of singing. He could almost feel the sound of waves pulsing against his fingertips. A warmth spread through him like a summer’s sunset, like the first sip of rose.
Will floated on the surface, peering around, hoping to spot the whales in the distance. But they were too far away. This feeling. It
was a stark contrast to the chaos and violence that infected his childhood.
—
Violence continued throughout his childhood. His mother preferred to spend her time with alcohol over him.
Will reached for the vodka bottle on the shelf, about the drop it into his bag when he spun around and smacked into his mother. Her face reddened and her vein pulsed in her neck.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said through gritted teeth.
He scrambled for an excuse. “I was going to make you a drink.”
“Liar,” she said, saliva spraying him in the face.
“Fine,” he snapped. “I was taking some for myself. I didn’t think you would notice since you’re never sober, anyway. But that’s my bad. I should have known you monitored your liquor like a hawk.”
Will’s mother shoved him, and the back of his skull smacked into the wall. His jaw fell open and he let out a wail, rubbing his head and finding blood staining his fingers.
“Oh, is that a little blood? Well, that’s your fault. Never steal my alcohol again!” his mother bellowed, her voice grating along his bones. “Oh, is that a little blood?”
Guilt gnawed at his gut as he stumbled into his room. The words, “your fault,” rattled around his skull. Heat crept up his neck and his face burned. He trembled as the rage ploughed through him, and his vision blurred.
Will grabbed a duffle bag and shoved as many clothes and personal care items into it as possible. He stared at his empty piggy bank, which was just there for decoration, then he stepped out of the room. He stalked past his mother, said goodbye, and left.
She was too drunk to realize he was gone for good. He knew he wouldn’t miss her. But his heart ached for what he would never have; a mother who cared. The night swallowed him whole. Darkness and cold and loneliness all at once. But he didn’t turn back. He snuck onto a bus and arrived in a new city the following morning, unsure how he would live, or who he would become.
