The Sweet Smell Of My Ruin Chapter 2

By two o'clock, the sun was beating down on the sand like white-hot needles.

I stood at the entrance of the private beach, suffocating in the tight, neon-blue wetsuit. The sand beneath my feet was scorching, but inside, I was shivering. The sound of the waves crashing against the jagged rocks felt like a dozen invisible hands wrapping around my ankles, pulling me downward.

My father was sitting under a giant umbrella nearby, an icy drink in hand, laughing loudly with a group of wealthy out-of-town women.

"Your boy is quite the looker, Rob," one of them remarked, pointing a manicured finger toward me. "He looks like a Ralph Lauren model standing out there."

My father laughed, a booming, self-satisfied sound. "Oh, Jesse’s our golden boy. Raised him right here on the water. Swims like a fish."

I swallowed hard, my stomach churning. In my mind, the vast blue horizon began to distort, expanding until it mirrored the deep, tiled abyss of the pool from my childhood.

The surfing club’s shuttle bus pulled up to the curb. A dozen young, athletic tourists climbed out, laughing and talking. My mother immediately put on her customer-service smile and rushed over to greet them.

"Welcome, everyone! We have your oceanfront suites all ready for you. Jesse! Don't just stand there like a statue! Get over here and help with the gear!"

I dragged my heavy, unresponsive legs forward, step by step.

The group leader, a young woman with polarized sunglasses, looked me over. "Nice gear. You guys take your beach service seriously." She handed me a sleek, custom surfboard. "Careful with this. It’s carbon fiber. Worth more than your rent."

I took it from her. The smooth fiberglass still carried the damp, briny scent of the ocean.

In an instant, the world tilted.

The surfboard in my hands transformed into the slippery edge of the pool tile I had clawed at so desperately when I was seven. The young woman’s face blurred, replaced by Tabitha’s grinning, teenage face.

"Hold your breath! I said hold it!"

The auditory hallucination blasted through my mind. My hands shook violently.

The expensive board slipped from my grip, crashing onto the jagged granite rocks below with a loud, sickening crack.

The entire beach went dead silent.

The young woman’s smile vanished, her face contorting in anger. "Are you blind?!" She shoved me hard.

My foot caught on a wet rock. I stumbled backward, losing my footing entirely, and fell into the shallow tide pool.

The freezing water rushed over my waist.

"Help! Help me!" I screamed, thrashing wildly. I flailed my arms, kicking my legs in panic as the water splashed over my chest. "I can't breathe! I'm drowning!"

I curled into a ball, clutching my head, suffocating in less than two feet of water.

Around me, the crowd erupted into laughter.

"Is this guy for real?"

"The water is barely to his knees. What a drama queen."

"Is this some kind of stunt for social media?"

My father and mother pushed through the crowd. My father’s face had turned a deep, furious purple. He stepped into the water, grabbed me by my collar, and yanked me up like a soaked dog.

"You useless, embarrassing piece of garbage!"

A heavy, ringing slap landed across my face.

My vision blurred, and a high-pitched hum filled my ears. The salty water, mixed with the metallic taste of blood from my split lip, trickled into my mouth.

"Are you trying to ruin our business on purpose?" my father hissed under his breath. "A kid raised on the coast, afraid of water? What are the guests supposed to think of us?"

I covered my face, shivering violently. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." I mumbled, my voice cracking. "I can't... I really can't."

My mother quickly turned to the guests, her face stretched into a strained smile. "I am so sorry, everyone. Our boy has a history of severe panic attacks. We’ll cover the cost of the board entirely, and your stay tonight is completely on the house."

She turned back to me, her hand gripping my bicep so hard her nails pierced the neoprene of my wetsuit, digging into my skin.

"Get to the linen room and stay there," she whispered, her voice dripping with venom. "No dinner for you tonight."

I don't remember how I walked back to the utility building. The whispers and stares of the tourists followed me like a physical weight.

"Is he mentally ill?"

"He looks completely unstable."

"Stay away from him. He might snap."

I pushed open the door to the linen room. It was a windowless space packed with piles of unwashed sheets and heavy tablecloths, smelling of sour dampness and harsh industrial bleach.

I slid down the wall into the dark, my head resting against a stack of cold towels.

I reached into my pocket, but it was empty. I didn't even have a way to call for help anymore.

Then, I thought of Dr. Gregory Ross.

He was the only general practitioner in our small coastal town who also handled psychiatric consultations. Six months ago, he had prescribed me anti-depressants. He had told me, "If things ever get too heavy, Jesse, you come straight to my office."

I stood up, grasping onto that memory like a lifeline.

While the staff was busy hosting the reception out front, I slipped out the back door and ran toward the town clinic.

If I could just get a formal diagnosis—something in writing to prove I was truly ill—I could go to the police. I could finally find a way to leave this place.