RockFord Island

Chapter Eleven

          For the most part, Sundays were pretty laid back as a kid. I remember playing video games, watching cartoons, and finishing up last-minute homework assignments like it was just yesterday. I had a few friends in school that went to church. Sometimes, I'd ask them questions about what they did there, and what it was like. I was intrigued to know more, but we never really worshiped any religion in my household. 

          I guess what I'm trying to say, is that if there really is a God amongst us—a higher power watching over—I need him more than ever right now.

          I press my hands up against my ears as hard as possible—to the point I can literally feel each and every bone inside me flexing in desperation. It just won't stop—the high-pitched ringing sound. I've been laying here on the beach for hours, drowning in my endless misery. Drowning to the point as if someone is holding my head underwater, my lungs no longer able to produce oxygen, leaving me with no choice but to endure the indescribable pain and suffering.

          My eardrums are about to burst—or already have—and I continue to go crazy. It's like I'm sleeping in a blanket of fresh snow—my whole body shivering like a leaf. I gruesomely listen to the metaphorical fingernails slowly running down the fictional chalkboard. Loud, deep screeches, making me quiver and cringe with disgust and agitation. My shoulders shrug up in disturbance, and my stomach cramps like the roots of a tree twisting in the soil.

          "Please!" I beg under my breath. "Make it stop!" But my words are nothing more than sniffled cries

          My eyes continue to sting like I've been drenched in tear gas. The more I scratch them to relieve the irritability, the worse the rashing becomes around the sockets. My entire body is restless, to the point it feels like I have thousands of little ants crawling all over my skin, the cold sweat pouring off me like I'm in a steam room. I have the energy to run a marathon, yet simultaneously obtain the drowsiness to sleep for days on end. It's such a horrible, confusing sensation, leaving me more baffled as to what's going on.

          Everything is starting to slowly fade away. It's almost like I'm having a spiritual awakening—an ego death. As if I ate a bag of magic mushrooms, and I can remember small, forgotten aspects of my life that took place many, many years ago. I randomly entertain a thought of the first time I went fishing with my dad. I can picture us driving down to the old spot he and his buddies used to catch salmon. He taught me how to cast the line out into the river, and would gently assist me on how to reel it back in. Obviously, I wasn't very good at it, but it was the fun times that mattered.

          I then fantasize about the bike my grandparents bought me for my seventh birthday. I absolutely adored that bike. It had bright red handlebars and colourful ribbons hanging from the back. I got my training wheels off a week later. I felt so free cruising on my own, my parents cheering happily for me as they chased behind, making sure I didn't fall. Those were such beautiful memories. I feel so grateful that I was able to experience a peaceful, joyous childhood.

          But there's another recollection I'm having as I continue to lay here suffering. It's about a person—someone who's been on my mind the last while. Remember Brad, along with his wife, Cindy? The hippie couple we met in the bar from Portland? They were the ones who told us about the island in general. The ones that persuaded us to come here, and we listened like the bunch of dumb-ass drunks we were that night. 

          Why? I've been asking that same question over and over. Did Brad and Cindy know about all the horrors this mysterious island had to offer? What possible motive could they have to make us suffer like this? They portrayed it like the perfect getaway, but in reality, it's a living fucking nightmare. This is an island of pain—an island of misery—and nothing more. It all happened because Shawn had to smoke that damn cigarette with Brad. Wow...there I go again, blaming others for my problems.