About

Amanda Westbrook. 20. West Palm Beach, FL. All I want is the sea.

Search for content

Mother always stated, fight for what you want, fight until your little heart gives out. What if fighting isn’t the best option? What does one do then?

The sea snatched the unsuspecting child. It swept him out of his anxious stance and carried him until he lost sight of the shore. He put up a meek fight, a child’s fight. He kicked. He punched and splashed. The waves slammed into him, repeatedly. Knocked his soul out of him. Sucked his spirit out. He was not the same child when the sea returned him to the shore. Placed him gently back on his feet, even splashed his hair, equivalent to a pat on the head. The boy grew up and was never the same. He grew up with calloused skin. Salted. He was different. Winded.

I crafted it carefully, whittled my intricate designs throughout the page. My print lied snug in the pages, like sleeping lions in their den. Disturbed they roar and rattle their cages. Disturbed, they rattle the mind.

I stared into the loops and crosses of the dream catcher I made when I was nine. It still hangs above my bed. Purple base, white string, pink feathers, grey star, moon, and clouds. After all this time, I can’t recall one time it spared me from a nightmare. It sucked none of the negativity from my dreamland. I believe I crafted it incorrectly. Stupid nine year-old self.

I have a propensity to drink too much. I grew up watching my parents slam drink after drink and I swore I would never let alcohol pass my innocent lips. I grew up watching my grandparents inhale cigarette after cigarette, smoke lingering in the air above their heads, settling in their hair, my hair, my clothes, their clothes. I swore I detested it so much, I would never touch a cigarette to my innocent lips. Yet I smoke regularly, letting the smoke drift in my body and escape through my nostrils. My older sister mocked me, condescendingly telling me that it was just natural, that she did it and she liked it. She said it was in our genes. Well, I know now that’s bullshit, but I do enjoy the inhibitors. They make me forget about those younger days. I’ll forget them all eventually.

I wish I could plunge my hovering knife into society’s back.

I whispered in the darkness to the ominous stranger. He lingered by my closet and I was fully aware and alert of his presence and the danger he conveyed. I whispered on. He was growing impatient with my prattling and started ripping my clothes from the hangers and spewing them this way and that. I continued, only an octave above the ruckus he was making. He grew angrier at my futherance and stomped over to where I lied. He raised his molded, decrepit finger to my lips, leaned in close - close enough that I could taste his soured breath in my mouth, (I was sure I would hurl) - and released a prolonged “shh” onto my face. My eyes teared when I knew he was upon me. What could I do then? My babble had gotten me in a predicament again. He dragged his finger from my lips down my night shirt, idled there against my bare chest.
He plucked his finger up suddenly and reached in his black frock. “Aah, here it is. Now we can start the festivities, my dear dear beauty.” A box of matches. The figure removed his fedora and placed it on my stomach. “We shall light up.” And with that, he flicked his wrist in a way that sounded as if it had snapped, and the match was ablaze. “Here’s to the new year, beauty.” He tossed the match right on top of me and by god, I couldn’t move. All I could do was continue to whisper. It burned a hole in my chest so deep. It seeped right through my body, through the mattress, dropping down to the floor. It sizzled out. The circle that the fire left smoldered. I winced as I fingered at it, and the man, farther back now, just grinned. “Dear. We are one and the same now.” He dropped his head low and graciously lent out his hand. I didn’t know what choice I had, so I returned a hand into his. He whisked me out of my burnt bed and where we went - it was hotter.

Thoughts from the corner, thoughts from the coroner.

Affording space at a cost.

Waging war in my control system. Tiny cannon fire slices through the cortex. Small horses trod around up there, imprinting hoof marks in the squishy areas. I can feel this jumble going on. Gunpowder coats the whole battle area; any sparks from you and the whole goddamn thing could go to hell. Suddenly, a stray wind from the ear canal lets in a whisper. A whisper of your name. Time seemed to slow and a ticking sound grew louder. That baby went up like a firework on the Fourth of July.

I practically inhaled the iced flask, spilling most of it down my chin. I wiped the escaped liquor off with the back of my sleeve. I was so out of breath that it hurt to swallow.
“How’s that rye going down?” He commented, more likely than not because of my current facial expression.
“Just right, I reckon. I didn’t really taste much at’all.” I spit the frothy slaver from the edge of my lips, pursed and took another enormous gulp. I slammed the rest of the booze, only a couple of sips, and set the flask gingerly on the wooden table. “Thanks fer your troubles, sir.”

Dearest,

I have set aside some things. Take the plant I keep on my bedroom windowsill; it’s yours. I also want you to have my fish, I know he’s always been fond of you. I figure you will both get chilled in the winter, so please keep each other company.

How are things over there? I haven’t heard back in awhile. I bet it’s warm. It’s unreasonably bitter here. My skin is never without goosebumps, my nose never without a small drip, like my leaky bathroom faucet. I would love to hear back before the sky turns too dark here. We haven’t much time. I love you and hope to hear back.

xoxo, yours

She fell to the floor, face down. Her teeth smashed against the shelled driveway and several of them snapped off, as clean and easy as if someone were snapping beans. There immediately was a pool of blood forming around her face and she continued to lie with her face pressed to the hard shells. She was unconscious and certain to drown in her own crimson.

You can read as many silly things as you want but it still will not change diddley-doo.

I thought I had forgotten.
I thought I had.
I thought I.
I thought.
I.