The Book of Regrets

Every single night I stare at the same old, beautiful stars. Every night I lay in the sand, in this same, shallow trench that fits the curvature of my body to a T. Every night I lay here, and I daydream about what my life will be like when I finally make it. I think about all of the women that are going to want me. I think about the house that I’ll live in, overlooking the very beach that I lay on at this moment. I think about the cars that I’ll drive on Hollywood Boulevard, back and forth, and each time I spot a homeless person I’ll stop and give them money, and clothes on their back, and food in their stomach, and a hotel key. Every night, I lay here, under the pier on the beautiful Santa Monica Beach, and I daydream about success.

I moved here when I was seventeen years old, after leaving high school, and all of my loved ones. I promised them all that I would take care of myself out here, and as far as they know, I still live in my very first apartment with a girl, that I USED to know. I’ve made enough money from the artwork of tourists that I charge five bucks a piece for to keep my phone on, and once I wake up, take a shower on the beach, and sneak into a restaurant without ordering food for a few minutes before they kick me out, I Facetime my family and friends and feed them some made up nonsense story about how I’ve been working on television and big movie sets to stay afloat over the least nine months. Although, something tells me that they don’t believe me.

But, on this particular day, when I returned to my humble abode, it was to my surprise that I had been paid a visit, judging by the messy lump of sand that was filling the trench that my six-foot-two frame had created. And, on top of this messy lump of sand laid a note. This note was simply an old, tattered piece of notebook paper that said “You’re welcome.” in very sloppy, chicken-scratch handwriting.

“For what?” I asked myself.

I don’t know anyone here, in this entire state.. Well, anymore that is. And surely the only surprise that she would have come by to give me was a slap in the face for what I had done to her. And surely, I deserved it. But anyways, I had no clue who would have brought me any kind of gift, or why anyone within a thousand mile radius would feel inclined to do so. Regardless, I started digging through the sand with my bare hands for what felt like an entire day. To the point that sand had caked into my fingernails until I could hardly feel the tips. I dug and dug and dug, and got practically nowhere.

Maybe this piece of notebook paper just blew into my spot. Maybe some kids were building sand-castles under this beautiful pier that I had come way too familiar with, and maybe that’s where the lump of sand had come from. Maybe someone spotted me here and wanted to play a practical joke on me, making fun of my situation. My spot was now way deeper than usual after all of the digging, but I turned and sat in it anyway, and out of anger, slammed my fist against the ground, just slightly to the left of my hip, and received a hard, stiff thud in return. This wasn’t sand that I had struck, that’s for sure. I tapped the object again, and it echoed the same thud. I flipped over to my knees and continued digging, until revealing a wooden box. And this wooden box had my name on it, clear as day, not engraved or anything, just sloppily written in permanent marker.

So, I opened it. It was like I had opened a box filled with everything that I’ve ever needed. What sat in this wooden box, with my name written on it was twenty thousand dollars.. and a small black book. My very breath had been ripped out of my body. I couldn’t hear the waves of the ocean, or the footsteps above me. I could not stop staring at the unbelievable treasure that I was holding in my filthy hands. I glanced at the little black book for maybe two seconds before throwing it back in the wooden box, and buried it in the spot that I would never have to sleep in again.

Then I spent the next week doing all of the things that I had been dreaming about since she left. I bought myself a car. Not the car that I dreamed of necessarily, but it would do. I went out of my way to find less fortunate people to help. I paid for an apartment on the beach, for months in advance, within looking distance of my old spot beneath the pier. Weirdly, all while asking myself, “I wonder what she would think of me now?”

Everything was perfect, until the day that I entered into my apartment, on Santa Monica Beach, in my brand new, tailored clothes, to find that little black book on my kitchen table.

I had absolutely no clue how this book ended up in my apartment. It felt like the book was a person, just standing in my apartment, staring at me, not saying a word, and watching my every move, and begging me to open it up.. So, I did.

Again, it felt like my breath had been ripped out of my body. I couldn’t hear my air conditioner, cranked as high as it can go, or the people on the beach, enjoying the beautiful sunny day. Because, in this little black book, was the absolute worst thing that you, or I could ever imagine.

A list of horrid, unimaginable, unforgivable tasks. And these tasks were not hypothetical tasks that were listed in this book. Whoever assigned these tasks to me, knew every single detail about me. They knew my birthday. They knew everyone that I had ever cared about. They knew her. And they knew that I was never going to decline the twenty thousand dollars that accompanied this little black book in that wooden box buried beneath the sand in my old spot.

These were tasks that I agreed to, by accepting my newfound wealth. By accepting what I thought was happiness, finally. So, I dropped to my knees, and the little black book of horror, fell on the floor, and flipped to the last page that contained any content, as if the hands of a ghost had opened up right to it. And that last page simply said, “You’re welcome.”

And suddenly, I missed that little spot underneath the pier, that I once called my home on Santa Monica Beach.