RIPTIDE | Rafe Cameron

21. 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘭

Not seeing the sun for hours can do crazy things to a person, it can make you lose any sense of time and lead you to lose your mind, and I've had the shutters closed ever since I got to the surf shop. I must have fallen asleep about an hour ago because I just woke up, lying on the floor behind the bar, the remains of the vodka bottle spilled across the floor.

I rub my eyes, sitting up slowly, already feeling hungover as I rest my head against the wall, feeling utterly lost and hopeless. The sirens are still consistent outside, meaning they must still be searching for John B, and my alcohol riddled brain can't deduce whether that's a good or a bad thing.

Carefully, I grip the bar and pull myself up to standing, clinging onto the edge of the bar as I wobble on my feet. After managing to find my balance I feel my stomach reacting to the movement, alcohol consumption and lack of food.

I rush to the bathroom, making it into the cubicle just in time to throw up the contents of my stomach. I drop to my knees as my stomach empties, sweat lacing my body as I kneel on the cold tile floor.

I slump against the cubicle wall, catching my breath as my stomach settles itself. I could just lay here forever and I'm not sure anyone would even notice. My parents would probably have me sent to a psychiatric hospital if they saw me like this, and Rafe would try even harder to keep me away from cocaine.

The thunder rumbling outside draws me back into reality, prompting me to slowly stand back up. The reports on the radio have been saying that this storm is going to cause havoc on the island, so I may as well head home for shelter, as tempting as the idea of staying here is.

I slope back out to the bar area, picking up the empty vodka bottle and chucking it in the bin, deciding that the last thing I need is even more questions from my parents. I wipe up the half of the bottle of vodka that spilled over the floor in my sleep, tossing the cloth in the sink and making my way outside.

As I lock up the surf shop I notice how grey the clouds are as the thunder continues to rumble. A storm like this is never good, and it always tends to have a lasting impact on the island.

I grab my bike from the side of the shop, pushing it through the harbour and back up towards the street. People are running around hecticly, securing their boats, locking their shutters, taking their outdoor stock inside, all while gossiping about the whereabouts of John B.

On the walk up to the main road, my eyes on the ground, I spot a bike that I've seen countless times. I look up, fear filling my body as I lay my eyes on Rafe.

He's sitting on a pile of wooden shipping pallets, staring out at the water to my right. He's got blood all around his mouth, and his clothes are dirty. My brain runs at a hundred miles an hour, panicking about all the things that could have potentially happened to him, despite the way our argument ended.

"Rafe," I whisper, my hands shaking as I grip the handlebars of my bike.

He looks at me with soulless eyes, muttering a simple, "Hi," as I approach him.

"What happened to your face?" I whisper as I reach him.

"Your friends did me over," He laughs it off like it's nothing, "I didn't know that Pope had it in him."

"Pope did this?" I exclaim, catching the attention of several passers by, as Rafe presses his index finger against my mouth.

"Probably best not to draw attention to ourselves, right now." He says, dropping his hands.

"You say that as if your mouth isn't covered with blood," I scoff, "Come on, there's a first aid kit in the surf shop, we'll get you cleaned up."

"Alright." He nods, climbing off the pallets and following me back towards the surf shop.