Summer Days Drifting Away

It was a commercial summer, ‘Tongue Tied’ by Grouplove played on repeat. Sweet rum scented the air and fresh berries garnished every drink. The sun laid rest to revellers as they sat around beach bonfires and stared into the soul of the flames receiving psychedelic visions of their future.

But when you wake to a cold October morning, realising summer is gone and your alarm is threatening to wake the dead, you realise this wasn’t what you saw through ayahuasca eyes.

Summer is the only time I had friends, everyone seemed to get busy during the year. My mother homeschooled me, so I didn’t have school friends. I had a dog, once, but he went missing around the time my mum lost her job.

I stayed with my grandparents in summer at their house near the beach.

Now, I was twenty-two years old and I couldn’t hold a steady friendship let alone relationship. Lord knows I could thank my parents for blessing me with such amazing people skills.

Grabbing a t-shirt, I took a sniff. It had another day wear from it yet.

Behind the heavy curtains was daylight, dampened by dark clouds. I looked to my watch, then to the alarm ringing out on my phone again. I hoped I wasn’t late. I had three alarms, set thirty minutes before I needed them. 9 A.M., 1 P.M. and 8 P.M. each one a reminder.

“No, no, no.” It was 8.49 A.M.

I couldn’t be late. I had a schedule.

I threw on yesterday’s jeans, buckled in by the belt and slipped on a pair of sandals.

“Grandma, you want any oats making?” I hollered, knocking on the bedroom door opposite mine. “Grandma?”

There was silence in place of her voice.

“Gotcha,” I called back. “I’ll make extra in case you change your mind.”

I always made extra. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. You should always overeat a healthy meal in the morning. Warm oats and a helping of fruit. Delicious. I knew gran loved it too, but she’d gotten lazy in her old age.

Even on a tight schedule, I took a moment to stand on the porch and look across the beach as light rain swept by and the tide revealed driftwood. I collected it all, the perfect material for our bonfire.

My phone chirped from my pocket.

“Right, right,” I nodded, silencing it once more.

Set across three floors, the house was only immaculate on one floor. The entry floor, you never knew when guests would stop by, and like my grandma says, “you could make a friend today.”

On the kitchen hob, I brought a large pan of milk to boil.

Being on time meant using a high flame while adding several cups of oats to the mix. Stirring everything in with a wooden spoon until it glued together nicely.

“Viola!” I removed it from the heat with one minute to spare.

I was almost late. I didn’t deserve the addition of strawberries this morning. I grabbed at the handles of the pan and hauled it to the open dumbwaiter hatch.

Mostly used to transport food from the kitchen on the middle floor to the dining room on the ground floor.

I took the candle in the window, a long stick of wax. I lit the wick and set about downstairs. Opening the door, a cold waft pushed back, blowing at the flame. It released the regular musty odour, but nothing a scented wax melt wouldn’t sort.

I disliked the ground floor for a number of reasons. The carpeting on the stairs had been pulled, the tiles were cracked and chipped, and the laminate was peeling from the adhesive.

Hideous. My lips snarled as my sandals clapped against the concrete.

There wasn’t much light either underground.

I held the candle high as I navigated towards the switch. The must was stronger, marred with a sour vinegar scent.

The electric dash as I flicked it and an orange flicker popped in the bulbs.

I extinguished the candle with a blow. “Ah.” Beside the stairwell was the dumbwaiter with the pot of cooked oats. “Hope you’re hungry.”

The dining table was set.

Six chairs. Each with an empty dish.

Four of the chairs were filled.

Limp bodies strewn across the wood table.

“I said, hope you’re hungry,” I forced the pot down with a laboured breath. “Look alive.”

One of them twitched, letting out a drawn-out groan from his dry lips. Nonsensical murmuring. I threw a limp wrist and chuckled, they were playing again. They always did this.

“I found something today,” I let out with a chipper tone. “Dry wood, out on the beach. Aren’t you excited for summer?”

“No,” a coughing response came.

A no? My brow immediately forced into a knot. “What—but I—I’m doing this for us, please, be appreciative. Appreciate me. I appreciate you.” I stuck a wooden spoon into the bowl. “I made you your favourite.”

Four of them. Two guys. Two girls. The head of the table was reserved for me. The other head was for my mother, but she never came to visit. It was ok, I wanted her to visit when my friends were feeling better anyway.

I dished out a helping of oats. “Come on, look alive.”

Through a whimper. “They’re—dead.”

I tutted. “What have I told you?” I marched to his side and grabbed at his hands, his wrists a little sore from where he wore the nice metal cuffs I’d provided. “They’re sleeping, and they need to wakey wakey.”

They never did wake while I was around.

They were much like my grandmother. She liked to play games.

I liked to play games too, and I hadn’t lost once.

I was just biding my time.