The Beach House

All Anthony wanted was a better life, a change to his surroundings, he wanted to live a life of his choosing. April 17th would be the day that his wish tragically came true. My piece for the More Than This competition.


5. The Comedown

It was all too much for me. I was back in the real world but I didn't want to be. I wanted to be back at the beach house, I hadn't even had time to talk to anyone, or look around. It was over so quickly, it wasn't fair. 

"I want another one," I demanded, my head felt like mashed up dog shit, my vision was blurred but I didn't care.

"Anth, dude. That's a bad idea," Bez said calmly, smiling.

"What happened? You alright mate?" Scott said getting off the sofa-bed and resting his hand on my shoulder. "You looked pretty fucked."

I remember shoving him off me, I just wanted to go back.

"Bez, I need another one," I said shaking. "I need to go back." No one said anything, they just sat there in silence. "I need to go back!"

"Get him some water," Bez said to Micky who then disappeared from my view. I heard the tap going but not much else, my vision was now failing, so were my knees. The room was spinning, swirls of weed smoke circled around me. And those eyes, staring eyes judging me, I felt them like pokers.

Micky came back with water but I couldn't swallow, it just dribbled down my front as I gagged and choked on the liquid. I begged to go back, I begged and begged, but my body seemed to be shutting down one limb at a time. Finally the numbness reached my head, darkness overcame me, and I passed out.

When I came too Bez was gone, along with those purple pills. My friends were there, but I didn't care. I left the flat as quickly as I physically could, my brain still feeling like it was doing backflips in my skull. Nothing seemed real anymore, not as real as the beach house.

Through the help of that one pill I had made it to Heaven; I had seen the dead, the lost and the forgotten. It was calm, and beautiful and everything Preston wasn't. Even I was different there, not just in my clothes but how I felt, I felt better. Everything I ever wanted was in that beach house, it truly was pure bliss. And having to give that up, having to give up everything I ever wanted, when I only had it for the briefest of moments, it was a travesty. How can you go from visiting the kingdom of heaven to this? At the time I truly thought I'd never be as happy again.

I made it back to my flat and just flipped out, I threw books, smashed glasses. I remember grabbing a knife and making holes in my bed, just stabbing and stabbing. 

I broke down in the bathroom. My clearly broken knuckles were bleeding from where I started punching the walls, the blood staining the porcelain toilet bowl I leant on. I had never mourned over Harry's death, I remember thinking suddenly, the bleeding calming me down, allowing me time to think before the platelets built up, forming the scabs that would allow the rage to build up once more. I never did mourn his death, we just drank and got high and avoided the subject. Occasionally we'd propose a toast, but it had no context, they were just words we used to show others we were coping. None of us were coping, not really. 

That was the true day the dream died, along with little Harry; the day his smile was gone for good. The friendships were lost, the dream of moving away, everything. We gave up on it all shortly after the funeral. I had never made the connection until that night in my bathroom. I had it all blocked off, I had walled up my past and drank to keep it that way.

I knew then what I needed to do. I needed to go back to the beach house, but not to stay or to bask in the sun. I wasn't going back because I wanted to, not anymore. I needed to go back to say goodbye to a friend that I never had a chance to. I thought by saying goodbye I could find closure, and move on. Maybe even be happy. 

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