Under the Waves
The ocean was calm, no wind or rain to whip the sea into angry, roiling waves. The sun, shining brightly from its lofty perch, was unimpeded by clouds, warming the ground beneath my feet. The day, so beautiful and clear, felt like a cruel insult. Shouldn’t it be raining, or at least overcast, on the day I chose to I kill myself?
The alarm begins to chime, rousing me abruptly from dreamless sleep. The peaceful piano notes, which seemed so soothing when I chose the tune, hammer on my ears like a gavel on a bench. It can’t possibly be time to wake up yet, I grumble to myself, I just went to sleep. But the clock doesn’t lie, it is time to start the day.
My heart was racing as I pedaled my bicycle down the loose gravel path, kicking up rocks with every furious rotation of the wheels. I knew what I was doing was reckless, but maybe it was the secrecy that made it so exciting. No one could know where I was going, especially not my parents. They would never understand.
There and Back Again
From my earliest memories, books have always been a source of comfort and entertainment in my life. The love for reading was embedded in me, nearly written on my DNA just like the genes for my red hair and freckled skin. Many family trips were taken to various libraries and bookstores, searching for the next story to take home with us. Getting a new book began to feel as exciting as getting a new toy to play with, a feeling I still experience to this day when I step foot inside one of those sacred homes for stories lovingly written for me by authors I have never met.