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1
GLYNDON
Disasters start on black nights.
Starless, soulless, sparkless nights.
The type of nights that serve as ominous backgrounds in folklore tales.
I peer down on the crashing waves that war with the huge pointy rocks that form the cliff.
My feet tremble on the edge as bloody images roll in my mind with the wrecking force of a hurricane. The replay happens in full, disturbing motion. The rev of the engine, the slide of the car, and eventually, the haunting scratch of metal against rocks and the splash in the deadly water.
There’s no car now, no person inside it, no soul to be dispersed into the unapologetic air.
It’s only the slam of the angry waves and the ferocity of the solid rocks.
Still, I don’t dare to blink.
I didn’t blink back then either. I just stared and stared, then shrieked like a haunted mythical creature.
He didn’t hear me, though. The boy whose body and soul are no longer with us.
The boy who struggled both mentally and emotionally but still managed to be there for me.
A sudden chill runs down my back, and I cross my flannel jacket over my white top and denim shorts. But it’s not the coldness that rattles me to the bone.
It’s the night.
The terror of the merciless waves.
The atmosphere is eerily similar to a few weeks ago when Devlin drove me to this cliff on Brighton Island. An island that’s situated an hour by ferry on the south coast of the United Kingdom.
When we first came here, I never imagined everything would spiral to a deathly end.
No stars were present then either, and just like tonight, the moon shone brightly, like the bleeding of pure silver on a blank canvas. The immortal rocks are unassuming witnesses of crimson blood, lost life—and an all-encompassing sense of grief.
They all say it’ll get better with time. My parents, my grandparents, my therapist.
But it’s only been getting worse.
Every night for weeks, I haven’t gotten more than two hours of hazy, nightmare-riddled sleep. Every time I close my eyes, Devlin’s kind face comes crashing in, then he smiles as scarlet red explodes from all of his orifices.
I wake up shaking, crying, and hiding in my pillow so that no one thinks I’ve gone whacko.
Or that I need more therapy.
I was supposed to spend Easter break with my family back in London, but I just couldn’t take it anymore.
It was pure impulse when I snuck out of the house as soon as everyone fell asleep, drove for two hours, took the ferry for another hour, and ended up here past two a.m.
Sometimes, I want to stop hiding from everyone, myself included. Oftentimes, however, it gets too hard and it’s impossible to breathe properly.
I can’t look Mum in the eye and lie. I can’t face Dad and Grandpa and pretend I’m their little girl anymore.
I think the Glyndon King they raised for nineteen years perished with Devlin a few weeks ago. And I can’t face the fact that they’ll learn that soon.
That they’ll look at my face and see an imposter.
