The warmth on Ocean’s closed eyes felt so good on that cold morning. The brand new year brought a tremendous blizzard the previous night, but once the sun was up everything melted, even the most stubborn slush.

It was the perfect opportunity to grab the big blanket and head outside. The ground was still wet and Ocean could feel his hands freezing as they were touching the sticky tips of the grass, yet the unexpected sunshine was making it all worth it. The birds in the trees were lively, chirping, flapping their wings around and jumping from one branch to another. They were probably enjoying the weather just as much. Suddenly, Ocean heard a soft rustle of the grass and the click of a camera shutter very close to him.

“Could you please stop taking pictures of me face?” Ocean muttered under his breath, not bothering to move a single inch.

“This light is perfect. I want to capture it all,” a nearby voice replied.

Ocean opened his eyes and blinked several times. He turned his head to the left where the voice came from. A black-haired boy, skinny as a twig and whiter than the snow that covered the whole city last night was sitting right next to him. He was holding an old Polaroid camera and shaking a paper where Ocean’s picture began to develop.

“You took at least three hundred photos of me the other day, like.”

“I need one for every day that I can’t be with you. This one will be a Monday Ocean,” the boy said and passed Ocean the picture. “Will cheer me up after the weekend’s gone.”

Ocean’s young face was pictured on the paper, a slim, pointy nose filled with small freckles, eyes softly closed. The contrast between the January light piercing through the tree leaves and their shadow were making this simple picture comparable to a painting.

A deep crimson colour splashed on Ocean’s cheeks as he gave the photograph back. “You have a good eye. You can make even a pitiful imp like me look beautiful.”

“You are beautiful in my eyes, Ocean. I absolutely must have every single bit of you recorded. I’m scared when I get older one day my brain will shut off and everything will be lost, like how my Nana forgot all of us. I’m fortunate enough to have you in my life, even for only a few days per month, so I might as well make as many memories as I can. And what are memories without proof?” the boy said and put the picture in the backpack that was hanging from his bony shoulders.

“It’s only me, though. I’ve never seen you take pictures of yourself or of us together.”

The boy marvelled at Ocean with his bright emerald eyes. A cloud of sadness shadowed the light reflected in them. “You, the trees, the birds, the stars… You are all so sublime. I will only spoil the picture.”

“Isn’t Diarmuid supposed to be the name of the most irresistibly beautiful man?” Ocean joked and grabbed the camera from the other’s hands. “Come’ere,” he added and wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders. He wore the biggest smile, raised the camera up high and pressed the button. The camera flashed and a paper came out.

The photograph landed on Ocean’s lap as he opened an old book, its pages faded and tan. The memories flooded his brain, memories of their last day. He looked at the photograph and a tear escaped his eye, rolled onto his cheek and landed over the edge of the Polaroid. With his thumb, Ocean swiped the paper clean. Two scrawny teens, a blond and a raven, surrounded by green grass and laughter. The blond, with his left eye’s skin slightly darker than the right, was smiling widely, holding in his arm the other. On the margin, it was scribbled with cursive “Happy 16th, D.”.

Ocean stared at the Raven.

Those piercing eyes, green and intoxicating like absinthe, always held a certain darkness, as if he knew how unfortunate his fate would be.

It was going to be exactly eight years since then in a few days. And just like he promised, Ocean was on a plane, travelling back home. He put the picture back in the book, where it belonged, and closed it. ‘The Shadow over Innsmouth’ by H. P. Lovecraft. He had read this book from cover to cover over a thousand times by now, hoping that one day its owner would appear before him by the time he’d reach the final page. He looked outside the window. Thousands of little clouds were passing by. He wondered how it would be lying on top of them. Probably freezing cold.

“Would you like something to drink, sir?”

Ocean got startled by the gentle voice of the air hostess. He turned around to face her. “No, thank you.”

The brunette lady, dressed in a perfectly ironed blue uniform and a sleek updo, gave out a worried smile and passed Ocean a serviette. “If you need anything, please, do not hesitate to call by pressing the button above your head,” she said and moved forward.

Ocean stared confused at the small piece of linen. His bafflement was soon cleared up when the child sitting next to him pulled his jumper by the sleeve.

“Why are you crying? Are you sad? I can sing you a song!”

Ocean touched his cheeks only to realise they were wet. He pressed the serviette on them and smiled at the little girl. “I’m okay now, thanks,” he said and he remained silent for the rest of the flight.

❦

Home. He was finally home. If anything could ever be called one. But wherever he was, it was home for Ocean. He took a deep breath and sat down at a bench in the middle of the graveyard and lit a cigarette. It wasn’t raining but the wind was strong like an imminent tempest was hiding behind the mountains, ready to strike at any given moment. Ocean’s shaggy golden locks kept being blown over the tip of his cigarette, burning their ends. He cursed at the wind and at himself for not having his hair cut for such a long time.

He opened his book and began reading. It must have been the fiftieth time or so. Page after page, he could possibly recite it without looking at it if he tried. He paused. As he was looking at the clouds flying over his head with great speed, barely making any recognisable shapes, he heard at a distance a yelling and loud crying.

He turned his head around to find out what was going on. A young blond teen with glasses bigger than his head was shouting at four men dressed in black, carrying a wooden coffin. The boy was pleading with them to let the coffin go, to not bury the body. “He’s alive, he’s alive I tell ya!” he kept screaming but the four men kept walking, ignoring him completely. They opened a six-foot deep hole in the ground, lowered the coffin, covered it with dirt and left unbothered. The teen, sitting on his heels before the grave, had thrown his glasses away and was crying uncontrollably.

Ocean closed his book and put it back in his duffel bag. He strapped it on his left shoulder and pushed his glasses up his nose. He stood up from the bench and knelt right next to the boy, the joints of his knees cracking loudly. He looked at the grave. A feeling of empty sadness overcame him, as if he had missed a very close friend’s birthday party without any good excuse. He left a single yellow lily on the empty vase next to the stone. The name on it was Diarmuid Lynch.

“Now the stage is bare and I’m standing there, with emptiness all around,” the teen next to Ocean began crooning, his voice breaking as the tears were cascading along his cheeks.

“He loved Elvis that one, didn’t he?” Ocean asked, not quite waiting for a response.

“He died because of me. And I couldn’t save him. I don’t deserve life any longer.”

“You will live, though, and that’s punishment enough.”

The boy looked at Ocean with his sullen greys. Ocean could recognise those eyes from miles away. The image of death was freshly imprinted in them and hope, Pandora’s very last gift, had left them only a few days ago. It hadn’t been that long since he had those eyes himself.

“Have we ever tried… you know…”

“Yeah, we have,” said Ocean. “Never successfully. All five times. We’ve screwed up our body and our mind so badly we’ve started seeing things, though. We are seeing him again, but it’s not any good. He always tries and stops us from ending things.”

“Are you sure we’ve tried hard enough?” said the boy scratching his full of scars and bruises arms. “If he was alive now, he’d say that if we wanted to die we’d be dead by now since we’re so very smart. We wouldn’t need a dead lad’s permission.”

Ocean shivered as a gush of icy wind gently passed through him and raised the collar of his jacket to protect his bare neck. He contemplated the boy’s words. Perhaps it was true. Or perhaps it was pure coincidence. “I no longer know how to do this,” he finally spoke up. “I’ve been living his life, trying to finish what he started. Fulfilling his dreams. I’ve never had any, to begin with. But he did. I can’t turn back the time, switch his place with mine. I wish I could. Now I’m stuck. I’m empty. I don’t know where I’m going.”

“We’re dumb, aren’t we?”

“The dumbest,” Ocean chuckled. “But that’s not what other people think. In a few months from now, the most difficult part will start for you. No matter how much you’ll study or work, no matter how many books you’ll read or movies you’ll watch, you’ll always be left with tons of empty time on your own, staring at the walls, having to face each and every one of your demons. Having to face yourself.”

“Wasn’t it always like this, though?” said the boy sceptically, the inner corners of his eyebrows pushed upwards. “All those sunny days we were forced to stay in the attic because we haven’t been good, like?”

“At least it was his visiting us that was holding it all together. Now, there’s nothing. I still don’t know how to fix the storm this silence brings. I’ve tried but-”

“I was hoping I’d find you here.”

Ocean froze. His eyes widened in anger. He looked over his shoulder, a tall blonde woman met his gaze. She had hazy blue eyes and her face was burdened by countless age lines.

“Want do you want?”

The woman smiled. “Always so kind and gentle you are, Oisín.”

“Leave, you don’t belong here.”

“You never forgive, do you?”

“I’m not your bloody Jesus,” said Ocean and got up, the boy right next to him disappearing with the wind. “You can’t just pray for an hour and expect me to suddenly forget sixteen years of abuse.”

“Those are some harsh words, my child.”

Ocean put his gloves on as the extreme cold had turned his nails blue. He could barely move his fingers. He could feel icy shards scratching his cheek. He curled his fingers into a fist and straightened them repeatedly to force the blood back to his extremities. He faced the woman. “Are they though?”

The lady sighed and wore the kindest smile she could muster. “You’re thinner than a noodle. Have you been eating anything? Some meat at least?”

Does sucking cocks and eating cunts count? “I don’t think I will ever.”

“We miss you so much. You never visit.”

“Didn’t cross your mind I don’t want to?”

“You’re our child, Oisín, we love you,” said the woman and gripped her purse tight on her chest. “I love you! Please don’t forsake us for an accident that happened so many years ago, your father-”

“Accident?” Ocean raged. “That was no accident! You and your fucked up husband are no longer a concern of mine. And you,” he continued, a finger pointing at her, his face burning red, “you never stop defending him, do you? You love me? You miss me? You’d always watch, with your arms crossed praying the neighbours don’t hear my screams. Tell me, mother, when no one is watching who do you believe in, huh?”

Ocean glared at the women silently, his anger building up inside. As she remained speechless, he fixed the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder and walked away.