Sink, Florida, Sink (The Novel) #2
Chapter 1, Part 1
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If you’re familiar with my work, you may recognize the title ‘Sink, Florida, Sink’ because I wrote a play of the same name. That said, when the theatre industry effectively shut down because of Covid-19, the already hard-sell of a climate change-influenced, semi-apocalyptic hurricane play became a *bit* less enticing to the producers considering the show. I think the story of ‘Sink, Florida, Sink’ is still worth telling, though, so I’ve decided to adapt the story into novel form as an exercise for myself.
This week’s gangletown is an excerpt from the first draft of ‘Sink, Florida, Sink’ (the novel). If you love it, let me know, and maybe I’ll share more in the future.
Read the Prologue HERE
CHAPTER 1, PART 1
I’m sitting in the Florida room, wrapped in a blanket, eating french-cut green beans from a can. Seb says it’s gross and can barely look at the things anymore without gagging, but I find them comforting. Honestly, I’d probably be eating them this way, even if they weren’t one of the very few options available on the island. When I was in fifth grade, I got food poisoning from Burger King, and for the better part of two years after that, green beans were one of the only things I trusted not to make me sick. At that age, most kids were all about chicken fingers and tacos. Seb was particularly into grilled cheese on the George Foreman. But for me? It was french cut green beans from the can. I like to think it’s part of why I’ve done so well the last few years. Neverending hunger that is only temporarily satiated by the same canned food or occasional grouper has driven more than just a few people to go boat or batshit. I’ve got my green beans, though, and I’m not going anywhere.
In the corner, Sebastian has his leg kicked up on the sill. His arms sit crossed, and he occasionally huffs too loudly, unconsciously performing the anxiety he feels about Christian coming over. I can’t say I blame him for pouting. Seb said, “I love you,” and Christian said, “Let’s break up.” Not that I would know, but that has got to suck.
“Don’t worry,” I offer. “I can’t imagine that he will show up for our freakin’ birthday party after all of the nothing that has transpired between us lately.” It’s been weeks since they split and, outside of morning assignments, none of us have heard a peep from him. I tried to catch him once on a rainy day, but he pretended not to listen to me and bolted. He won’t come.
Seb lied, “Shut up. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I’m not worried.” The desperation in his bouncing knee says otherwise. Seb went on. “I’ve played out the entire scenario in my head multiple times, and it goes like this: We will be waiting for him. Clara will arrive and, with genuine confusion, comment on Christian not having arrived yet. She’ll say, I swear I invited him, so don’t get mad. I did what I could. I tasked him with tasks! The night will come, and he won’t break curfew, so we’ll silently agree to “start” the evening properly. That’s what I want, and that’s what will happen.”
I nod at him affirmingly. That is probably what will happen, but, despite his protests, Seb will be disappointed. I’ll be disappointed too, but it will be simpler if he doesn’t come. Or, at the very least, less dramatic.
I join in on Seb’s game, “At some point, Clara will have to pee, and we’ll sit in silence knowing all too well that we’re probably twin-thinking the same thing. To break the ice, you’ll crack disingenuous jokes of appreciation for Christian’s absence, and I’ll agree that it is better this way even though we both really want things to go back to the way they were, and-”
Seb stops me. “Speak for yourself, Vi. Been there done that. I’m on to the next.”
“Oh? Who is the next?”
“Not a- uh- no one, shut up. I’d just rather it be the three of us so we can relax and avoid the bullshit. Better yet, I’d rather go to my room and-” Seb, feigns getting up to leave, and I grab the handle of my baseball bat, playfully warning him.
“Sit,” I say. He does. “Good dog.”
We wait quietly a little bit longer. The sun sinks behind us, and I can’t help but think about all we’ll have to do in the morning. I start going through my task list for the hundredth time. From memory, I try to recall who I have assigned to what projects. I keep an alphabetized list of all the residents because it helps me stay organized. I do it every day, so most of the time, it’s easy to zip through. Reaching Christian, I get thrown off. Instead of his assignment, all I can think about is his absence. I can’t believe he isn’t going to come over. Couldn’t he get over it long enough to show up for me? Sure, Christian is Seb’s ex-boyfriend, which makes things weird, but he is my friend too. One of the only remaining residents on the island with whom I have a personal relationship. The kids I grew up with before the storms are all gone, and, in my position, it is hard to be actual friends with the residents. So, most of the time, I am either alone or with my brother. Other than that, it’s only been Christian and Clara. I’ll do my best to hide it, as with most things, but I guess the loss of Christian hasn’t been easy on me either.
Seb breaks the silence. “He probably forgot.”
“He didn’t.” A bright voice sings out from the yard.
“Christian?” I jump up to let him in and start to undo all three of the padlocks on the screen door. “You came!”
“Happy Birthday, Violet.”
I hug him deeply. He is taller than me by almost a foot, and, though still lanky, he feels sturdier somehow. It’s only been a few weeks, and suddenly he is more man than a boy. I guess he is finally growing into his body. “What is this, Puberty: The Sequel? You’re so beefy.” I say.
Christian sets a small box, hastily wrapped in old tin foil, down on the table. “Our last batch of rations included so much condensed milk that we legit had no clue what to do with it all. I tried to put together a trade, but no one around here knows how to use it. So, naturally, Nana decided that her new thing is being the one who does. She’s been experimenting in the kitchen. I’ve been her lab rat.” He pauses. “…Hi, Seb.”
Seb stands up and moves toward Christian with a stutter. When they hug, it is reserved, quick, and painful to watch. After exhausting the initial line of pleasantries one might go through with the recently estranged, we sit down and fall into an awkward silence.
“Hey - where is Clara?” Christian asked. “She organized this thing, but she’s late?”
“Maybe she’s going for the fashionable entrance,” said Seb.
I raise a hand to quiet them and look at the sun. There are maybe ten minutes ‘til sundown, and it’s not like her to be risky like this. My imagination runs wild with what might have happened to her. Was she robbed? Did something happen at the bar? She lives alone. Someone could have broken their oath and forced their way in.
I can feel my brow furrow as I grab my bat and move toward the screen door. I want to see Clara turn the corner of our street and race to the front door like she has a thousand times. I want to see her curly mane bouncing joyfully. But there is nothing.
I don’t even realize it, but I am talking to myself. “What the hell is she doing cutting it this close?”
Seb tries to be kind. “Violet, chill. She is far from a delicate flower.”
I bite at him, “No, you’re the only of those in this group.”
“Ouch, Vi,” Christian says, trying to soften the blow.
We can usually rib each other like that, but Seb doesn’t say anything else, I guess it was a little harsh. I can apologize later. Right now, I can’t think about anything other than Clara. No, she is definitely not a delicate flower, but I know for a fact that she doesn’t fuck around with curfew. She’d never let anyone know it, and few would believe it because of her loud personality and tough exterior, but Clara is scared of being caught outside at night. Not just scared, terrified. Full-out ‘phobic. The idea of it haunts her. I couldn’t begin to count the number of times she has crawled into my bed at the crack of dawn, pale-faced and sleep-deprived, because of a recurring nightmare she has about being out in the dark.
The nightmare goes like this.
Clara closes down the bar, just like she does every day. She should have plenty of time to get home safely, but the sun starts setting far more quickly than usual. She sprints through the middle of the street toward home, running faster than she ever has in her entire life. No matter what she tries, she can’t go fast enough, and it’s as if her legs are made of rubber. When she gets to her house, she can’t open the door. No matter how hard she pulls, twists, or pushes, the door won’t open. Panic sets in. She slams her body into it, kicks it, and hits it with a walking stick. It doesn’t budge. Desperate to get inside, she tries to break the window. It won’t shatter because the glass isn’t even there; the windows were boarded up years ago. She doesn’t feel like she is crying, but tears stream down her face uncontrollably.
Clara sees the light on at a neighbor’s house down the block. The owner is a daylight friend, so she weighs the risk and decides to make a run for it. The moment she steps off her porch, though, a group of night-pirates appears. They’d been waiting for her in the shadows. “You know the rules,” one says. “No sun, no rules.”
Another taunts her. “Didn’t you take the oath?”
She can’t control her reaction and starts to yell. “I helped write the fucking oath, you asshats!” They don’t back down. “Please, I just got locked out of my house. I’m going down the street to the house with the lights on. They’re my-” She points toward the neighbors, but the lights are out.
They take her body and pin her arms to her sides so she cannot fight back. They tie her feet and hands. They stuff her mouth shut with a filthy old fishing net, twisted tightly together like a rope. Bound and gagged, they leave her in the street, vulnerable to anyone else that might come along. They run to her house, and the door opens easily for them.
She is alone in the darkness. The taste of old fish, salt, seaweed, and god knows what on the netting makes her wretch. She throws up and starts to choke because of the vomit. It seeps from the edges of her mouth and dribbles from her nostrils. She almost gives up, allowing herself to die in a pool of her own filth when she realizes that her teeth have become razor-like. She chews through the netting and this, somehow, also releases her arms and feet from their binding.
As it does in many dreams, time shifts without warning. The pirates surround her again, but this time, she begins to fight them all at once. Two men. Three men. A woman with short blonde hair. Two more men. She hits them with her fists and her legs. She elbows the temple of a massive man who tries to sneak up on her. She is a good fighter. She is quick, she is smart, she is unafraid. She feels like an action hero from the movies and believes that she can win.
Then- Clara is stabbed. Or, on a different night, she is shot. Or she is burned alive. Or she is drowned. Up to this point, the dream is always the same: close the bar, race the clock, locked door, tied-up, vomit, fight. But, no matter how hard she fights, it always ends with her loss, and she dies in some objectively horrific way.
As she tells it, she can feel the pain. Every time she recounts the nightmare back to me, she remarks that people aren’t supposed to feel real pain in their dreams. I guess we are supposed to wake up right before bad things happen to us, and the pain that we feel while we’re sleeping isn’t supposed to translate coherently into consciousness. But Clara feels it. She feels the flames eat at her arms or her skull crack against the street curb like an eggshell against the side of a pan.
In the end, she lies on her back, the world going dark around her, as Death introduces himself. She dies. “What is it like?” I’ll sometimes ask her, hoping for some comfort. She can never really explain it in any way other than that it is death. She experiences death.
And then, she wakes up. She understands again where she is - alone in her dead parent’s house on an all-but-abandoned island - and there is no relief. The pain lingers in her body like a hangover.
Every time she suffers this dream, she comes to my place at the crack of dawn. She crawls into my bed, nearly catatonic with exhaustion, and tells me the story from start to finish. I know it by heart, but I think she needs to say it out loud. I think it helps her to share the pain with someone she loves.
I know her fear of the dark as closely as anyone could without experiencing it themself. Whatever is causing her to be late right now has nothing to do with being fashionable. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I know that something is wrong.
Six minutes till dusk. Where is the hell is she?
…
(Chapter 1 to be continued)
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