16. Poppy Wells

16

Poppy Wells

I ’d been pacing back and forth in my bedroom for the past three hours filled with burning anxiety. My wetsuit clung tightly to my skin, and I had tried to shove it off me as a growing feeling of being claustrophobic overcame me but the fabric got stuck halfway down my body and I was so frustrated I just left it hanging there.

I could’ve screamed and ripped out my hair. Hell , I could’ve burned the entire house to the ground and maybe it would kill me once and for all.

I was a fucking waste of a life, it was pathetic .

Why me? Why didn’t I die that day? Why wasn’t it fucking me ?

I couldn’t fucking surf anymore .

I was broken.

It was stupid, the entire thing was so fucking stupid . It was the ocean. My home . Yet when I tried to go out, I froze . Frozen in panic, my feet rooted to the floor. I wanted to move but my body refused. All I saw when I looked out there was a million ways my little brother could’ve died, and each one seemed more painful than the last.

I had no idea he was even gone until I woke up the next day and my dad casually announced it as I was eating breakfast. I cried non-stop that day—cried every day for the entire week that followed. My mom locked herself in her room and didn’t come out—the start of a cycle I now knew all too well.

I starved that week because they both forgot I existed.

After that day, my father pretended that Oliver was never born in the first place. He grew violent because my mother was grieving, and I think his way of dealing with it was letting it fester and become anger—a weapon he wielded against us both. They were never bad people, not in the beginning. They were just grieving. But I would never let that become an excuse for the years and years of abuse that followed.

My mom blamed me for her only son’s death. Blamed me for his abuse. I was the problem in her eyes, not her husband whose fists were imprinted on her skin. Me . Her daughter. I grew up with that burden hanging over my head—one she never let me forget, even now.

One day, I came home to my mom screaming, throwing glasses at my father. In his hands was a bright red suitcase. He shoved her against the counter and smacked her so hard she crumbled to the floor. And without even a second glance, he walked out that door and never looked back.

I followed him, tears falling from my cheeks and staining my hands.

He couldn’t even look at me.

Somewhere inside of him was the father who attended my every surf meet, took me to carnivals and let me eat cotton candy. Sometimes even milkshakes at the surf hut after I won a competition.

I didn’t miss who he was, I just missed what he used to be .

He left me in that house with her and never looked back.

I rotted away whilst he started a new family.

Maybe he hit them too, maybe he was still just as fucked up as he was after Oliver died. He chose to leave me because in his eyes, I would never be good enough. I could never make up for what my little brother could have been.

I was the excuse for everything, and I still was.

Deep down, I started to believe that was all I ever would be.

When I physically couldn’t take it anymore, I shoved my wetsuit on and tiptoed slowly over to my bedroom door. A small hiss left my lips when it creaked open and I made a mental note to fix that tomorrow, along with the hundred other things that were broken in this house. Dizziness overwhelmed me, spinning my mind and painting stars across my vision. It was the lack of sleep, it had to be.

Each step down the hall made my head swirl, my hands gripping the wall so tightly it made my knuckles begin to draw white. What the fuck was happening to me? I was being pathetic again. Come on, Poppy . I couldn’t be afraid of the waves. It was stupid, I was being stupid, and I was going to prove myself wrong.

My heart faltered as I passed the small, slightly jagged picture frame hanging from the wall. There were a million little cracks all over it from when my mom got into those fits where anything with his face on it meant it had to be smashed. Then the next day, she’d sob for hours on end because everything that reminded her of him was broken. It was exhausting trying to keep up with her, so I simply stopped trying.

I couldn’t change her. I couldn’t do anything but pick up the pieces after her.

A long time ago, I gave up trying to justify why she missed him in my head even after all he had done. Did she miss being beaten into unconsciousness? Each route was a dead end. I just had to accept that I would never know. Maybe she, just like me, missed the feeling of being loved. I knew he loved her, deep down, but somewhere along the way, it was lost to the person he became. She still chose to love him though, and I couldn’t decide if that was true love or foolishness .

The photo inside was covered in dust and falling to pieces, barely holding itself together. It was taken a few summers ago when my dad had thrown me onto his shoulders after I had won the junior surfing cup. I didn’t think I’d ever forget the proudness that glinted in his gaze that day.

We’d gone for milkshakes at Sunny’s Hut afterwards—both ordering our signature milkshakes with extra whipped cream, and sometimes strawberry slices. It was a tradition we’d kept since I had first started surfing, the one thing he allowed me to eat that wasn’t on my meal plan. It was a reward, and he knew starving me of it just made me train harder so I could have it again. It was a tradition that was now lost to time.

I didn’t even recognize the little girl in the photo anymore.

The smile on my lips, the adoration in my eyes.

I missed her. I grieved for her. That girl was gone now.

When I was little, I was addicted to perfection, to exceeding everyone’s expectations. Now ? It was just an effort to keep up with them. They knew me for the fearless and ruthless surfer I used to be, the crazy freak I was now, and the dead girl I would be. I was so driven, so relentless—I wanted each gold medal around my neck and if any other color sat there, it was a waste of time.

It wasn’t good enough if it was anything but gold.

I wasn’t good enough.

I knew it, he knew it, everyone in this miserable town fucking knew it.

So did Jasper in a way. Maybe he needed that push, that reason to go out there and do the best fucking performance of his life, even if it was just a heat or training session. It was about bragging rights, but I didn’t care about flaunting my achievements unless it was to him. He aggravated me in every way, constantly trying to be better than me so he could wave it in my face.

The more I thought about how I used to be, the more I believed I was beyond their reach of saving, and perhaps I prefer it that way. Perhaps that was how it had been all along.

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 memories remained, 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 would never be 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 was him .

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 hated myself . 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 stop myself . I was breaking and I didn’t know how to piece myself together again.

I was worthless .

All I wanted was for them to see me—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 did nothing .

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.

Something inside me was broken—empty heart, faulty lungs, shattered mind. A darkness that slithered through my veins, taking control of my every movement, every breath, every thought. I was a weak excuse for a person, and my own family knew as much. Hell , everyone in this stupid town seemed to know as much.

Exhaling a shaky breath, I glanced around me. No one was here, not at this time of night. That was why sunset surfs were my favorite. I had the entire ocean to myself, and like I always did, I would let the waves heal me, washing away the darkness until it leached its way back to me by the time I reached the shore. I could wash away the memories of yesterday and create a blank canvas for the ones I’d create tomorrow.

The ocean healed , and I felt sorry for the people who didn’t understand that.

Soft hues glistened across my board, bathing it in a happiness I longed to feel myself. If I could’ve chosen a new board, I think I’d choose one with slick black lines that ran across the edge of my board and the middle would be coated in a plain white, matching my infamous wetsuit.

The Orca . That was what they all whispered behind my back. Ruthless. Vicious. Killer . That was who they saw me as, who the world chose me to be, so that was who I became. I molded myself into the vision they created for me, and I played it like a damned song. It kept gossiping lips far from my vision, as they were too busy trembling at the thought of approaching me.

But what if they all knew? I felt like a fraud and if they came any closer, they would all see too. I was already broken, I knew, but even broken pieces could shatter. I refused to be made a mockery of just because of a grudge they kept hanging over my head like a bright red target. Tears swelled in the corners of my eyes and I groaned.

Wishing I wasn’t one of those people who cried at every minor inconvenience, I wiped them away hurriedly. White lines on pale skin, barren stomach just so my legs were thin. I was stuck here. Everyone else seemed to move on with life, but not me. Life had paused, forcing me to relive this pain over and over again. Obliging me to listen to every whisper, to see every stare, to taste each disappointing glance thrown my way.

Water kissed my toes as I neared the edge. I calmed myself before paddling out into the ocean. I forced myself to keep going. I wouldn’t stop now, I couldn’t .

What was it that dory said? Just keep swimming .

That was what I had to do—just keep swimming. In every wave that passed, I heard his scream in my ears. I felt it brush over my skin, surfing through my blood. This used to be the only time my heart felt content; the raging thoughts inside my head quietened with every brush of water against my skin. Out here, the growls of my stomach were drowned out by whispers of the ocean and the width of my thighs failed to capture the attention of my eyes.

Out here, it was just me .

Poppy Maria Isabelle Wells.

No masks. No walls. No pretending.

Brushing my fingers through the calming waves, I felt my lips tug into a small smile. I was doing it, I was actually doing this. Squinting against the setting sun, I ducked under the water letting the wave pass overhead. When I resurfaced, I felt my fingers tremble. There was nowhere out here that didn’t remind me of him. Even without the reminders of him, I didn’t think anyone knew me as well as the waves did—its salty waters roamed across my skin, caressing thin white lines and too slim wrists. It cared for me more than anyone ever had.

I owed these waters my life. Well , what was left of it, anyway.

Each kiss against my skin, each rock of my board beneath me reminded me that maybe I could survive—that this darkness was not eternal, and some day, I would see the light again.

A small laugh so broken my voice cracked left my throat barren. I knew it was a fool’s wish to think I could be anything more than the shell of the girl I used to be. Everyone my age knew what their future looked like and where it would take them. I had trouble envisioning myself surviving to tomorrow.

My heartbeat was so ferocious I could hear it thundering in my ears. When I looked around, I saw a little boy wail and thrash around in the water. His thin, frail hands desperately flung out of the water, grasping onto the air like it was something tangible. Something that could pull him to shore. It wasn’t. Paddling over was instinct, my body knowing exactly what to do before I even had time to think. I reached the kid in a hurry, my hands darting into the water to grab a hold of him, but when I pulled them out, only water fell through the gaps in my fingers.

He was gone.

It was a mirage, Poppy. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t him.

No —but it was real. I saw him. I saw him struggling and I heard him—I heard his screams. I swear I could. He was here on the waves. He followed me down because I was someone he looked up to. All he wanted was to be just like me. He wanted to be loved and adored by our father, I knew but they adored him differently than they did with me—for Oliver, it was true and pure. He was everything they had been waiting for.

But me? It was only out of pity and selfishness. If I went Pro, they could use my sponsorship money to help themselves or send Oliver to a good school, hoping he didn’t turn out like me. Broken like me .

By the time I finished paddling out, the calming water singing beneath my board, I realized just long I had been out here. The rising sun glistened against my board as my entire body trembled. I hated it. Why couldn’t I just be normal?

The calming waters began to stir, growing bolder and stronger—an unbeatable current churning in the deep. Panic coursed through my blood.

Breathe, Poppy, breathe.

A tremble rocked my board as the water rose to thrash over the top, soaking me completely. Fear caged my heart, rattling my frail bones as I tried to scramble any coherent thoughts into a sentence. I needed to get back to the shore. On land it was safe. Oliver should’ve stayed on the sand where it was safe. If he had, he wouldn’t be dead.

Fingers gripped tightly to the sides of my board, I pushed down onto my stomach and tried to catch a wave to ride. The golden sands of the beach were lost to my gaze, the thin shoreline disappearing from my sight. Only the dark ocean surrounded me, swallowing me whole.

Only when my board rocked over, plunging me into the cold, dark depths, did I realize my brittle bones couldn’t fight the waves when they found me helpless in their wake. And just like that, the one place my soul had always felt calm, became the place that swallowed me whole.

I was five years old when the emotional abuse started.

Six by the time I could tell apart the different types of footsteps down the hall.

It never got better. It never would.

Looking out towards the shore, I smiled for the last time.

I didn’t try to fight it, instead, I thought of him in the stars and smiled.

I’m coming home, Oliver.

My limbs grew tired as I fell beneath the waves.

And finally, I was at peace.