Work Text:
There is nowhere to escape.
Nothing exists in his life but the corner store Kid sees every day, the same family behind the kiosk; the fishers’ market down by the piers he travels through every day, fishermen with angry sun-inflicted wrinkles smacking cod filets down on bloody cutting boards; houses and neighborhoods barely ever changing decoration save for holidays or a death, only ever noticed when flowerpots and personal trinkets start to disappear from window sills; bakery, tailor shop, cobbler; same faces, same storefronts, same products. Same sights, frozen lives; a routine set by divine powers (or just dumb human nature) that no one can shake. He passes windows with chipped paint displays, advertisements and tacked up posters with years of wear and tear. He meets his reflection in oxidized glass and knows he is just as stagnant as every person in the town. He can run from those shoddy old buildings, of which he knows nothing but them, but Kid will follow the cobblestone path every other male resident has followed: workpubhomeworkpubhomeworkpubhome; the hamster wheel of all hamster wheels to waste away on. A path tread by every working man, father, hobo.
Every bone in his body wants to run, aching like a grandpa’s joints for a bed, ready to bolt for the other end of the world if he must. Kid dreams of it. A wild escape, one written like a storybook. Where most fold under what fate anchors them to, Kid dreams, daydreams, has haunting nightmares; all in which he comes up with every possible plan. Earn enough money to become a millionaire, rob enough people to become a millionaire, kill enough people to become a millionaire, kill the whole island so no one will stop him from stealing a boat and becoming a millionaire— build a boat and sail away and become a millionaire.
Toy models can’t begin to describe this millionaire’s ship he’ll have. A galleon, for sure. The biggest one he can own. No, a ketch, for extra speed on the ocean. Or a stowaway on one of those visiting merchants. Who cares, even a damn dinghy. Kid would doggy paddle off the island if he had to.
No matter where he tries to hide on the island, it will never be enough. He can go to every corner of the island, be the biggest fish in the pond; but the ocean is far too tantalizing to ignore.
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Grains of sand seasoned with razor sharp shells and garbage scraps jab at the soles of his feet.
“Victoria,” he groans. “What’s so great about the beach, anyways? There’s nothing good here. Just plastic and ocean-y crap.” A wet squelch interrupts his complaints. “Aw, fuck; and seaweed.”
“Relax” she says, cryptically. In an attempt to appear dainty, she fluffs out the length of her faded sundress and sits on the fabric.
“Priss.”
“Pansy,” Victoria shoots back. “It’s just the beach. Since when didya care about being clean?” There’s clearly no invitation to sit on her skirt in her words, so Kid resigns himself to getting sand crusted on his butt.
The weather remains overcast, as per usual, but there’s something beautiful about the clouds gaining a hint of orange. They sit there, in a comfortable silence. Gray water dances, horizon flickers and blazes warm while icy waves lick their sandy toes, clouds lumber across the sky; nature seems timeless and they are just so insignificant, two lost kids wanting things much, much bigger than them. A break in the clouds lets the dying sun out to breathe, and it’s almost exactly like a romance novel, and maybe it would be if Victoria hadn’t kept her gaze locked on the ocean the entire time, not even a glance at fumbling, blushing, adolescent Kid.
A quiet huff leaves her lips as she adjusts her slipping dress strap. “My dad won’t let me on the dragger. Says I’ve got no place with men.” Her face, round with youth, seems to sink with exhaustion, unspoken resignation. “Not even when I turn seventeen! Y’know, that’s when girls become ladies. Reaaalll women. But I guess even big girls don’t get to hang with guys.”
Kid sees this going in a grown-up direction, so he tries to nod like a grown-up.
“I wish… I was strong like a man… like my dad… so I could swim to the next island over,” Victoria whispers into the palm of her hand. “Yer lucky, Kid. Once ya get buff, yer gonna get to go wherever ya want.”
He bristles. “I’m already buff. I can go wherever I want, now.”
“Hah!” She still keeps her gaze fixated out into the darkening ocean, horizon now disappearing amongst the all-consuming black of the night. It’s humiliating for Kid. A double loss.
“I’ll punch ya to prove it!” he shouts, indignant.
“Prove it? Why don’tcha prove it to me by getting me off this damn island.” Victoria’s glittering lips are quirked into a smile, but something in Kid’s mind tells him she means every word. He watches her wet her mouth with a swipe of the tongue and a flippant brush of her stray cowlick getting whipped around by ocean breeze, a pinnacle of ladylike, in his opinion; feels his face get burning hot, wants to put her on his back and run across the water, all to give her what she wants. He watches her scrub (what she thinks are unnoticed) tears. He watches her like she might leave without him any minute now. And he laments his twiggy arms.