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beehyland · 6 years

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excerpts from VIOLET BEACH

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And then the same nothingness, same smell of salt, same breeze, but–

I was still standing. And we were in this space, this–this purple nothingness, no ground, no sky, no nothing, that’s a double negative, you get what I mean, and–I was still standing–more floating, which was–not as pleasant as you’d expect? But not unpleasant, either. And this woman, she looked at me, dead in the eyes, and–

And she said–

[beat, uncomfortable]

What did she say?

[laughs]

It’s–it’s in my head, like. Tip of my tongue. I wrote it down, but it’s–it’s another individual letters making out a word I know but can’t–type situation.

ii.

I try not to have crushes, because they’re dumb, and they keep my eyes off the prize, which is to say, y’know. College. My art.

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that feelings are pointless and that we’d be way better off without them, y’know? Especially when those feelings are for really dreamy girls who manage to look, like, at least 70 percent like she’s into girls, even though this is Corielli, so, like, she could be the straightest girl on earth, and also she’s weirdly nice, like—nicer than most people. And it’s kind of annoying how nice she is, like, she—she’s nice to everybody. Even to people who don’t deserve it.

But. Anyways. She’s super hot and I’m kinda sorta in love with her. Whatever. Rant over. I’ll edit that out.

So. Ghosts and mystery and intrigue. Woo.

Y’know, maybe Mae’s caught up in this mystery, actually, cuz—well, she only showed up after all that happened. Maybe she’s, like—maybe she’s a ghost. That’s the nightmare, honestly, being in love with a ghost. Like, second only to her being straight? Worst case scenario.

I could write a solid one act about being in love with a ghost and, like, protag comes to accept that she’s dead and is willing to make this work, but ghost girl’s like, “Oh, too bad, don’t like girls. Sorry, honey!” And that’s the plot twist. Sad ending. A tragicomedy for everyone.

iii.

When I was a kid, I always wanted to be a Mulder or a Dale Cooper or a Ripley or any given Rick Moranis character, and now–now I’m none of those. But this sorta thing, it gives me a chance, y’know? It–these are my monsters of the week, this is my search for the sister, this is me living out what was never written for me, y’know? It’s–I’m in this goddamn narrative, and even if this isn’t a narrative, I’m gonna make it one. Because why not! I–I’m working on self-love everyday, like Doc Claremont said. She’s my therapist. You know. Gotta get those life skills in place. Constantly improving. Letting myself be myself. Hell yeah.

So here’s the plot, so far, then. Seven outcasts–we’re all pretty outcast, I’d argue–stand alone on a beach, and, bam, flash of light, and bam, the world is dying, and then, darkness. Lost-style eye-zoom in, right, Michael Bay spin, and then we’re back on the beach. And then we get a coherent plot about time loops, and nothing else, because it is two-thousand-and-eighteen. And there are interwoven character webs, and interesting enough flashbacks, and–

And it makes sense. And it’s well-written, and it’s well drawn, and it has a really good cult fanbase that–you know. You get the gist.

iv.

But there’s something about the beach. Something so isolated from the rest of the world, y’know? Not–not, like, when you’re at Ocean City in the middle of August, no, I mean–when you’re alone, and it’s maybe forty degrees out, middle of January, and you’re–maybe you’re listening to some acoustic cover of your favorite 2004 pop song, as is my wont, and–you just feel something. And it’s tugging at you, like, maybe the beach itself is the siren song from folklore. Maybe the beach is telling you to go–to go home, even if you and the beach have different definitions of the word. My definition is–uh. The house. With Elaine and Douglas and the hammock and the fireplace and the messy bedroom and the–the wholeness of it all. And the beach’s definition is the ocean, and the abyss, and what have you.

Except–no. That’s bland high-school level faux-existentialism, and I’m better than that. I promise you. I’m better than that.

But there’s something about the beach. Y’know? Just–just. There’s something. And I think it’s important to all of this, I–Look. Listen. Maybe I was homesick and I didn’t even know it before I came back. I think that’s the thing. I think it’s just delayed homesickness and exhaustion.

Anyway. I’m currently recording from, because they have a mic and I do not, Angie and Teresa’s dorm, within the bathroom of which Angie is currently pacing, not saying anything, which is exactly the opposite of what she usually does, so, uh, we know something bad’s happened regardless of previous context. Just to. Set the scene, kinda. Some good visuals, and what have you, we gotta keep this as cinematic as possible. Also, this room’s walls are gray and have, like, emo music posters everywhere, so–let’s erase that and pretend it’s yellow with paintings on it. Maybe some faded pink or bright red accents. And I’m in the center of the shot. And this mic is old-fashioned Yeah, you got it. Right there.

Just got a typo-filled text about how these posters are not of emo bands, and, Angie, it’s good to know that that’s your top priority right now? Just sayin’. We agreed no guest stars, too, so, uh, get out of my recording. Dude. No texting. You can keep–pacing, and, uh, writing in dry-erase on your mirror, but. Get out of my recording.

vi.

So, here’s the thing about boarding school murders—cuz that’s where my brain keeps going, with this, because that’s the closest thing I have to mystery hunting in the past. Because I did help, yeah. I—I didn’t have many friends, okay, I was new, I was shy, I didn’t do sports or anything, like—I needed friends, and I had this opportunity, so. I stole a video camera from my film class and I helped make a documentary. Look. They can’t get me for it now, I have a masters. So.

We would sneak out into the woods out by the dorms and we’d just—we’d film recreations of the murder. A student killed her—well, we figured out that it was just her friend, but my roommate thought it might have been either an athletic rival or a romantic partner–which I shut down fast, like, look, I am all about gay people doing things, unless they are murder.

And we’d do this every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night, around three AM. I didn’t sleep much at age sixteen. I don’t sleep much at age twenty-five, even, but, like—I get more, now. So that’s really good. But irrelevant. And my roommate, whose name was Janice Potter, she was from Georgia and she hated that about herself, and—like, sure, cool, whatever, one Tuesday night, when I was busy building sets for the musical, she went out by herself, with the camera, and—I was walking back to the dorm, and I saw her lying in the woods with a broken leg. And I—I brought her to the infirmary, said she fell while taking pictures of the set build for the newspaper. She wasn’t even in newspaper, we—we barely had a newspaper. But the nurses didn’t care, they just needed to tell her mother something.

vii.

I don’t want any of you to be alone. I don’t think there’s anything worse than that, I–I’m glad we have each other, the seven of us. I love you guys. That’s–that’s what I want to say. And I love these stupid–these tapes. I’m gonna make more of ‘em. I hope you guys do too.

Uh.

I love you, I guess. I hate the stigma around that phrase, like, I love you, and I love bad coffee, and I love my guitar, and I love–I love cartoons on Sunday mornings, y’know? That we ti’vo’d as a joke and now we’re watching them not as a joke. Cuz they’re comforting and they’re nice and they’re good and we’re those obnoxious Facebook teens like, share if you remember the good ol’ days.

I love a lot of things, is what I mean, but I love you the most. I guess. Again, corny. But true. And whatever.

I–I’m gonna miss this mystery hunting. So.

Why stop, I guess? Why, when we’re–we said we’d stop when we learned what,but what if we stopped when we learn how and why and what to do next.

#vb #words #work #sounds

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