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Even on the sunniest of days, there’s blackness hovering in the horizon, just out of sight, waiting for you to forget it’s there.
Not for the first time, I wonder what it’s like on the other side of the island. The resort side, where rich pricks and nepo babies go to hide and decompress from whatever fuck ups led them to the remote, luxurious Black Diamond Resort and Spa. Be it scandal, crime, or whatever else they’re running from.
Difference is, their baggage gets them a private vacation. Mine gets me mandatory bi-weekly therapy at the Black Diamond Recovery Center, a for-profit inpatient rehabilitation and mental health facility found at the bottom of page three in the brochure.
But something tells me I’d be even more miserable over there in the land of sunshine and smiles.
More alone than even I could bear.
The wind starts picking up, and as much as I want to stay out here and watch Mother Nature unleash her wrath upon the ocean, I should probably head back. Out in the middle of the Pacific, with a cell phone about as useless as my first Nokia flip-phone, all we have to rely on for simple luxuries like weather forecasts and news from the outside are the powers that be running this pretentious little island oasis.
Dusting sand off my lap, I’m about to push myself to a stand when I hear it.
A branch snapping.
Easing back down, I turn my head, squinting through the sheet of rain blowing through just in time to catch the figure storming through the trees.
In all the times I’ve been down here since I discovered this little hideaway, I’ve yet to run into another soul. I’m not stupid enough to think no one else knows about this place, but it was nice while it lasted, pretending it was just mine.
It’s a man by the looks of it. Younger than me. He carries himself with an almost boyish, stubborn sort of deliberateness.Stompy.
I hold very still so as not to startle him. It’s clear he’s upset. Distracted. His dark, wet head hangs forward, gaze aimed at the ground, hands balled into fists at his sides.
Unlike me in my jeans and work boots, he’s dressed far more appropriately for this climate.
Khaki shorts.
Pale green linen shirt left untucked.
Brown leather flip-flops.
It’s pouring buckets now and I blink away the drops falling on my face.
I know I should say something—alert him to my presence—but there’s something about his demeanor, a frenetic sort of energy radiating from his quickening steps, that keeps me silent.
Even when he passes by, rushing past my line of sight a mere ten feet away from where I sit half-hidden, sheltered under the palms, I remain frozen.
Low, indistinguishable mutterings reach my ear, carried by the wind. I cock my head, straining to make out what he’s saying, but it’s no use.
I glance back the way he came, craning my head to see if anyone followed, say like his therapist, or one of the counselors. A friend. Anyone.
It’s obvious he’s in great distress, and yet somehow he’s alone out here. He can’t be going through withdrawal—those in detox are in what they call Level Red, and are basically under constant supervision in the medical ward. It works the same for those here for mental health reasons. The greater a threat they are to themselves, the less freedom they get.
And yet…
He comes to a sudden stop when he runs out of beach at the base of the cliffs.
Looming up ahead of him, there’s a steep, but climbable path that I imagine leads right up to the top. Rocks jut out from grassy, weed patches, spread out thinly before growing more dense the higher and steeper you get.
Not that I’ve tried climbing it—there’s a chain barrier, with a sign hanging in the middle that readsDo Not Enter—but from sight alone, I know it’s got to be doable.
He must think so too, because he charges forward and easily throws a leg over the chain, flat-out ignoring the written warning.
I frown.What the hell is he doing?
“Hey!” I call out, shooting to a stand. A cloud of sand kicks out from under me, dousing my boots and socks where I had set them to the side, but I pay it no notice.
With my gaze squinted and locked ahead, I abandon the meager coverage the palm trees provided, barely aware of the rain and wind slapping my face, tossing my chin-length hair around every which way.
