Dream of a Reunion

23 September

I barely remember their faces before the accident, at least when I'm awake. When I'm asleep, the dreams come, and whittle away at my sanity like insects at a carcass. No amount of drinking can keep them away. And oh, how I try.

I got lucky. The jacket I got from Saint Mary's had a twenty in it, no doubt forgotten by its previous owner. I use it exactly the way you think I would - on the strongest, cheapest booze I can get at AM/PM. That and this notebook.

I'm not sure what made me buy it. Something whispering to me from just outside the fog of alcohol that is my constant friend. But the dreams won't stop, and somehow, I think that writing this down might exorcise them.

It didn't work.

Earlier, the cop chased me off the park bench, so I went to the beach and snuggled up against the rocks I my new lucky jacket. I drank half the bottle of Evan Williams before nodding off to the sound of crashing waves. It was peaceful going in. Not so peaceful coming out.

I dreamed of something dark and wet. I couldn't quite see it, but I felt it. It licked my feet and slathered spit on my ankles. I thought I could hear its teeth gnashing.

I jerked awake, and the waves were lapping at my shoes, spilling through the holes to soak my socks. I heard the sound of shells being dashed against rocks - a gnashing sound. It was still dark, but I wasn't getting back to sleep any time soon, so I decided to write this down.

Before I did, their faces briefly flitted before my eyes - Sarah and Vincent. The pain is fleeting. I'm finishing off the Williams even as I write this.

24 September

It's getting colder. The other guys have already gone to the shelters. I keep ending up on the waterfront. I've gotten good at remembering all of the cops' routines, even if I'm destroying every other memory I have.

I'm sitting on the bench, writing in this book. I'm actually sober right now, which is rare these days. I'm trying not to look at the water, but I can still hear it. It is crashing, grinding, mumbling. I shake my head and keep my hand away from the bottle in my pocket, trying to finish this.

Sarah loved this beach. She would stand there in her orange bikini and laugh while Vincent ran back and forth chasing the little waves near the beach, giggling like crazy. I would join them at the water's edge, beer in hand. Vincent would scream and laugh when a wave caught his shins and he would dance back, to our never-ending delight. Don't go out too far, you little rascal, I would say. Sarah would rest her head on my shoulder and watch Vincent play at the water and everything would be perfect.

The water. Vincent would scream in delight, but my dreams keep twisting the sound into something else. Something chilly, like the water, lapping at my shoes.

September 24

It's midnight again, dammit.

The nightmare is back, but instead of just gnashing of teeth, I heard screams. I don't want to think about it, but the wet, scrabbling monster is there in my head, somewhere, lapping at my shoes. I heard a splashing noise in the dream, like something struggling in the water. Except it isn't water. It's the maw of this creature from the deep. It has come to claim its prize.

I must be going nuts. I swallow a fifth of the cheapest whiskey I can find every day to push the memories away, but they come back to haunt me as nightmares.

I was woken up by seagulls fighting over something at the water's edge. They squawked and screeched and the thing made wet, slapping noises as they pecked at it.

September 25

It's a bright day at the beach, and I'm pretty clear-headed despite being a bit hungover and sleep-deprived. I don't like being clear-headed.

I don't know why I stay here. The sounds and smells of this place are triggers for every event of the past year. I'm out of booze, and out of money, and the memories emerge from the mist, clear as cold spring water.

This latest one is of me, throwing myself into the water, diving down into the murk and emerging, searching desperately for Vincent. Something beneath had grabbed him and sucked him down like a garbage disposal. Sarah was on the beach, shrieking his name. I can still hear it.

They told me it was undertow. They told me the wind had blown the warning sign down.

They told me it was no one's fault.

I guess that's supposed to make it all okay. I guess we can mourn, and get on with our lives.

I guess I'll find a bottle and try to drown myself.

September 25

I fell asleep near the pier.

Earlier, I managed to lift a bottle of Jim Beam from the liquor store without the clerk noticing. It was the best thing I'd tasted in weeks. I don't remember sitting down in the sand next to the pier. But I sure do remember what happened after.

The nightmare of that dark thing from the deep came back. It surrounded me like the sea, a never-ending mass of darkness. I was standing in it, feeling the chill of water rushing around my legs, feeling it pressing me toward something, and I could not resist.

I saw someone else standing there in the distance. It was Sarah, in her orange bikini. Her golden hair looked dull in the gray light. Her eyes were wide open, but empty. She reached for me with both arms, and opened her mouth. Darkness gushed forth. It poured, like a torrent of ink, from her mouth, her eyes, her nose, from her groin around her bikini bottom. I tried to scream, but the darkness bubbled up from my own guts.

I woke up puking into the sand.

The clouds covered the sky, and it was pitch black. I could hear the creaking of the pier, and water running around the pilings. The surfers always stayed clear of the pier, for they knew that the waves could toss them against the pilings, and the barnacles on the pilings would tear them to ribbons.

My stomach is on fire. I think I'll go for a walk.

September 26

I'm sitting on the pier with my back up against the railing. I don't want to look out at the end of the pier and see the spot where it happened, but I couldn't stay away.

It's sunny, and the sound of the water is far below me. I can hear the rushing noise of waves as they split themselves against the pilings. Children run up and down the pier, followed slowly by their parents, languidly soaking up the rays.

I'm out of liquor again, and I don't want to risk hitting that same store for a fix. My head is pounding, and every cell in my body is crying out for a drink. Instead, I sit here writing this because I think that like pus being squeezed out of a pimple, the bad stuff that lurks deep in my guts will get puked out onto these pages where it can't hurt me anymore. I don't know if that works, but it's worth a shot, at least better than feeding the beast with cheap whiskey as I've been doing for so long.

Without the booze to chase them away, the memories are back. I can't hide from them, but I can come to terms with them. The latest one is of Sarah. She was a lot thinner, pale and fragile like a piece of china that was shattered and clumsily glued back together. She didn't speak much, and her eyes would rove around the house, looking for someone who wasn't there.

I remember finding the house empty, and realizing that Sarah had left the house for the first time since the funeral. The empty-coffin funeral, for Vincent's body was never found. I wasn't sure how to feel, except for anxious, so I went to search for her. And I knew. The place called to me - this place. The place I am now, spewing my guts from pen to paper trying to make sense of it. I remember stepping onto the pier. It was late afternoon, and it was unseasonably cold and gray. There was no one else here but me and Sarah.

Sara, standing at the rail, right at the pier's end. The world's end.

She was wearing a white shirt and jeans, and I saw the faint glow of orange underneath the shirt - that orange bikini. I hurried toward her, not sure what she was doing out here, and when I was halfway down the pier, she climbed up on the rail. I started to shout, but my throat choke up with dryness and all I got out was a croak. I had already started drinking, you see. That was all there was.

She stepped off.

This time they recovered the body. They advised me not to look, but I knew what Sarah looked like after she went into the water. The waves would have torn her to ribbons against the pilings, all except for maybe the parts covered by her jeans. There was nothing else to be done, except to drink some more.

September 26

The dream came back, but this time, the monster wasn't there. Instead, I was standing in my house, sitting on my couch in front of the TV. On my right is Sarah, her head nestled against my shoulder like always. At my feet is Vincent, playing with a toy I can't identify. The TV is dark. Actually, it's more than dark - it's pitch black. I know that if I walk up to it and put my hand out, the screen would not be there. I and Sarah and Vincent would fall into it, and keep falling, forever. Vincent looked up at me and pointed at the TV.

I woke up again, and the sky is clear and the moon is bright, illuminating the planks of the pier with startling clarity. I am stone cold sober, and my headache is gone. I feel like I could float away, this time on the cold wind rather than a fog of alcohol.

The pier doesn't feel cold. I can feel the thunder of the waves below, and now I know why I am here. I can see them at the end. They are standing on the rail, exactly where Sarah was standing that day.

Sarah and Vincent are waiting for me. She is wearing her jeans and white shirt with the orange bikini beneath, or what's left of them. They are in tatters, like her skin and flesh. There is something dripping from her wounds, like ink. Her eye sockets are empty, and the inky substance oozes from them as well. Somehow, she sees me with those sockets.

Vincent is standing next to her on the rail, holding her hand. He is wearing the same swim trunks he wore the day he disappeared. His skin looks mottled and greenish gray in the moonlight, and his eyes are also missing. His mouth opens and a gurgling rasp comes out. I think he is trying to laugh, like he did when he was chasing the waves.

They are here to spend the day at the beach with me, just like before. I'm not about to disappoint them. There isn't much left to write, so I'll end it.

I love you Sarah. Vincent, don't go out too far, you little rascal. I'll be with you in moments.