“THIS IS REALLY BECOMING A GODDAMN PROBLEM.”Poised on the end of the deck, Sam hurls a rock into the water. He’s not in a good mood. “Everything. I mean, I heareverything. It’s just getting worse.”
Costa reels in his fishing line and wiggles his feet as they hang over the edge of the dock. “Then, trip again. Simple. You’ll come back with something cooler.”
Sam spins around. “Really? That’s your answer? Screw you. I’m not tripping again. And neither are you. It’s too addictive, you know that.”
“Then, live with it.” Calmly, Costa casts another line. He’s not going to catch anything from the dock at the house, but he seems to like fishing from here anyway.
I stretch out on my towel and pull my sunglasses down. “There must be some way to deal with this besides another suicide run.”
“It’s notsuicide,” Costa growls. “You of all people should have an appreciation for the beauty of death tripping, Surge Girl.”
He does have a point. But Sam has progressively become more miserable. His hearing power seems to be increasing, and it’s a special kind of torture at work. He’s plagued by every conversation throughout the inn, which is beyond intrusive.
“I’m going to go crazy.” Sam throws another rock. He likes being here on the dock because the water brings a degree of white noise that helps stifle other sounds.
“You’re still only hearing people’s voices though?” I ask. “No other sounds?”
“Thank God, no. If I had to tolerate every single sound within my earshot, then I’d certainly be flinging myself in front of the closest oncoming truck.”
Costa sighs. “Man, that sounds fun.”
Sam flings a small rock at Costa, and he winces.
“Well, that wasn’t very kind.”
“Neither was killing me.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll let you two in on a little secret, one that is right in front of you, but you’re both too lovesick to see it.” He sets down his fishing pole, takes off his T-shirt, and lies back to take in the sun.
Sam crosses his arms. “What? You have some brilliant fucking idea to make this shit stop?”
I hate seeing him like this—so angry and restless.
“I do actually.” Costa lowers his sunglasses as though he’s not being stupidly calm in the face of Sam’s agitation. “Maybe I’ll make you guess what it is.”
Immediately, Sam moves to sit on Costa’s chest and clamps his hands around Costa’s throat so that he’s all but cutting off air. “You’re a fucking douche bag, you know that? Tell me.”
“Sam, stop!” I scramble toward them.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t pull Sam’s hands away, and Costa is definitely having trouble breathing.
“Stop! You don’t want to do this,” I say.
Sam tightens his grip.
Even while losing air, Costa smiles. “Do it, Sam,” he gets out. “Come on, kill me.”
“You do not want to do this, Sam,” I plead. “This is not who you are. Don’t let him get to you. He’s just screwing around.”
“Kill me, baby,” Costa begs. “Send me under…”
For a moment, I’m distracted. It’s a draw to watch and to be in the presence of Costa’s pleasure in his own pain. Or what maybe isn’t pain. Maybe it’s all pleasure. He turns his eyes to me, and all I see is the hypnotic look from his rush because he’s dying. Right in front of me, he’s dying.
“Sam!” I scream, shoving him hard. “Enough!”
Finally, he drops his hands and sits back on Costa’s chest, keeping him pinned to the dock.
Still smiling, Costa coughs and gasps. “Damn it. So…close,” he sputters. “Almost there.”
