Page 46 of Under the Waves

Every picture frame that followed was empty, devoid of memories. This house was hollow, and anyone who had ever stepped foot in here was eroded away until only memoriesremained, and sometimes, even those disappeared too. There was no trace of a home here—no broken bricks, no stolen promises, no shattered glass, no empty bottles and salt glistening bruises.Nothing. It was all erased like it never existed in the first place.

These halls used to be covered in photos—Polaroid’s my mom used to take of all of us doing the most mundane things, but somehow, she always made them seem extraordinary. Not anymore, though. Not since this house was suffocated in a darkness that slithered around our throats like a noose, waiting for us to break.

One of the only things that seemed to hold me together was the reassurance that broken girls couldn’t break any further, but each day, I proved myself wrong.

I broke a little bit more every day.

Piece by piece.

I only had so many pieces left keeping me upright…but how many more did I have left to lose?

The click of the backdoor rattled my fingertips just as I skimmed my fingers across the board perched against the wall. I had to do this—I had to prove to myself that I wasn’t broken. I didn’t want to be the girl they all saw when they looked at me.

I wasn’t her, I wasn’t her, I wouldneverbe her.

Padding down to the beach, my bare feet caressing the wooden planks beneath me, I drew in a sharp breath.

You can do this Poppy Wells.

Golden rays danced across the horizon, the setting sun following in its wake as the stars fluttered above me. A single tear fell down my cheek and I cursed to myself as I wiped it away with the back of my hand.Weak. So incredibly weak.

Why was I fucking crying again?

My thoughts drifted back to Oliver—they always did when the stars came out. No one was the same after tragedy struck, tearing our family in two. I had always said that he was the glue that held us all together and I was only proven right after he was gone.

Sometimes, I hoped that I would be enough for both of them, but I never was.

They loved Oliver. They just didn’t love me.

I didn’t even remember the point at which surfing became too much—the weight of what it had cost me, cost all of us, barreled down on my shoulders each time I picked up my board. I thought about getting a new one, one that didn’t remind me of him. One that I wasn’t on the night he died. One that wasn’t the reason he died in the first place…but that required money, something that I didn’t have.

Sometimes, I thought it was easier for her to pretend I died that night too.

After the day my dad left, I accepted that I wasn’t worthy—worthy of anything at all, actually. I barely surfed anymore. I stopped eating until it made me physically ill to the point that I had to. It wasn’t like anyone cared enough to notice.

Drowning, that was what I was. I was drowning in an endless sea of stars and in every shadow, I saw my little brother’s face. In every crevasse, I heard his laughter. I was drowning in the memories of him, unable to pull myself ashore.

When I thought of the ocean, I saw him drowning.

When I picked up my board, I thought of how many times he must have screamed by name.

When I felt the water brush against my skin, all I thought of washim.

I was the reason he was dead and even my own mind wouldn’t let me forget that.

Burning, white-hot anger ignited within me that day. A rage so overwhelming it stole me from myself, turning me into a monster. The monster they all believed me to be, except this time, I believed them too.

Spiteful venom laced my every word, pieced together in a sentence that tasted bitter as it left my tongue. I hated everyone and everything, and more so, I hatedmyself. That was why that thing with Jasper had kept me grounded for so long. Even before everything happened, I always had this anger inside me, and he just happened to know how to get it out of me in a way that wasn’t self-destructive.

I couldn’t stop the rage, I couldn’t stopmyself. I was breaking and I didn’t know how to piece myself together again.

I was worthless.

All I wanted was for them toseeme—to see me fucking trying. I tried so damned hard. My throat swelled and I felt it near closing. Each swallow felt like a brick logged in my throat. I tried breathing, I tried counting to ten, I tried drawing a square with my fingers and letting my breaths follow the lines of my fingers…but it just didnothing.

I wasn’t something you could cure with bubble baths and worry trees. I wasn’t a label, a diagnosis. I wasn’t the color of the medals that hung around my neck. I wasn’t the number of calories in my body or the number on the scales or the thoughts in my head. It was so hard to remember that I was human because no one treated me like I was.

The year after Oliver died, the only place I would dare venture was my room. Anything beyond that seemed like a task far too great to be managed, well, at least one that didn’t end up with me crumbling like a piece of paper on the pavement, doubling over in tears.