Act One

Part 1:

Darkness. A restless ocean rustled in the background. The gentle echoing of waves resonated through him like the soothing echo of a seashell placed against his ear. A salty ocean breeze swept by, tousling his hair and tickling his nose. The sand beneath him was wet, cold. He lay on his back against the hard yet comfortable surface, the pleasant autumn sun washing over his face as clouds drifted up above, obscuring and revealing sunlight as they pleased.

The perfect calm was interrupted by a persistent vibration in his pocket. He kept his eyes closed and moved his arm against the cool sand. He reached into his jeans and pulled a small smartphone device from his pocket. A pair of Prussian blue eyes opened sluggishly. He blinked, blinded by the hazy white brightness all around him. He brought the small phone above his face and squinted against the bright cloudy sky until his vision focused on the phone. A textbox was highlighted on the main screen:

CalAlarm

2 Sep. AC 195

Practice 15:30

Dismiss / Snooze

He hit 'Dismiss' and shoved the phone back into his jeans' pocket, sighing. Rolling over to his side, wet sand smearing over his plain clothes as he turned, he snatched his backpack off the ground and used the momentum of the turn to jump to his feet. His long legs were lean but strong; the well-toned limbs of an athlete. He dusted moist sand off his bright-blue-denim jeans and threw the backpack's strap over his shoulder. Sand was stuck to his messy brown hair, falling in chunks as he turned to walk away, leaving the secluded strip of beach. He trudged towards the thick Indian-grass kissing the sand where the beach ended and the hills rose high above the shore.

His hair was cut short, but messy; the front just a tad longer than acceptable. It was a boyish hairdo that hid his eyes from sight, which was exactly the point. He liked it this way, the shelter. Stubborn grains of sand clung to his tangled and unruly locks. Using one hand, he ruffled the hair at the back of his head roughly as he walked, trying to shake as much sand out of it as he could.

The pristine beach was encompassed by an endless row of rolling glacial hills covered with tall bluestem and switch grass. The towering phragmites and beach-grass bended in the wind, folding in waves mirroring the ocean below. Gray autumn sunlight filtering through the grayish-white clouds above painted a gloomy picture which only added to the sheer beauty of the place. This was his favorite spot on the island. It was such a visceral experience to be lying on that cold hard sand, letting the ocean air engulf you. He could almost blend with it, phasing out of existence.

He climbed up a steep hill, panting quietly as he trampled the tall grass. When he reached the top he stopped, turning to face the ocean. Raging bluish-gray waters surged in foamy white currents as far as the eye could see. Towering bluffs stretched along the seashore. The rock-face was stunning; the display of rustic yellowish and reddish earth-tones was one of its kind on the island. It looked like fire dancing on the cliff-face. Some said it was because the beach was haunted, marked by the devil himself. The perfect panoramic beach at the bottom of the colorful moraines felt either like the edge of the world, or a jumping-off point to something new and unknown. It was his own little private corner of the world, a bridge between his life on the island and whatever lay out there, beyond the sea.

There was life on the island, and there was the life beyond. His life was divided perfectly into two halves: before the island, and after. One was a nightmare, the other still felt like a dream. He was never certain which was which. He had been there once, in the great beyond. Far away from the island. Far across the ocean and waves, way beyond the clouds and sky. He knew what lay beyond the boundaries of the island... he knew it wasn't safe. Life Before was never safe. Life on the island was safe, dull. Which one was the nightmare?

Tearing his pensive gaze away from the stormy ocean, he turned to face inland. A large green meadow spread before him, grass swaying with the cold wind. He zipped up his navy-blue nylon jacket. It was very windy uphill. A narrow road split the wide green plain, running along the coastline. He walked to the bumpy old motorway and picked up a pair of mountain-bicycle that was laid at the side of the road. He mounted the bike, secured his backpack over his shoulders and cycled away, speeding past green plains and gray beaches below.

Block Island was only about 13 miles off the coasts of Rhode Island and Long Island, only an hour away by ferry to the mainland, but it still felt like the edge of the world. Only about a thousand people lived on the island. The rest of it was set aside for nature conservations, having been listed as one of "The Last Great Places". The town of New Shoreham, which was coextensive with the island, was the least-populous municipality in the state. It was a sought-after summer tourist destination, always bustling with people during the summer months. The Summer People found its beauty bucolic, but to him it always felt elegiac; bleak and numb.

It was a small town, and it always felt so brutally bright, even when the skies were overcast. There was no place to hide, not much room for privacy or anonymity. Everyone pretty much knew everyone amongst the locals. You could only get lost in the crowds during the summer, when the island was flooded with tourists. For them, the island was a summer town – wild and exciting. To him, it was normal, quiet. It was home. The cultural and socioeconomic rift between locals and visitors was about the most interesting thing to ever happen on the island and it only lasted for about three months a year. Once summer was over the island geared down and closed up in preparation for the harsh winter. As the weather became windy, cold, blustery and rainy, people struggled to make a living and the glamorous days of summer became nothing but a distant memory in a dreary gray routine.

Come September first, the tourists left and the island became numb once again. He preferred it that way. Summertime was the worse. He was much more comfortable during the colder months of the year, when the Atlantic Ocean was gray and rampant, its wildness beckoning him to its deserted shores where only dozens of ancient shipwrecks were there to keep him company.

But autumn also signaled the opening of the school year; today was the first day of school. He was a sophomore now, starting 10th grade. Block Island's School educated about 130 students in total, from kindergarten through senior year. There were only seven students in his class; the same group of kids he was destined to share a classroom with from the day he came to live on the island until graduation day. He has known them since second grade, though he could hardly call them his friends. He didn't have any friends. No one wanted to be friends with the New Kid and it more or less stayed that way throughout the years. He didn't mind. People weren't really his thing.

In a futile attempt to try and help him connect with his peers, his dad signed him up for the sports team a few years back. The Block Island Hurricanes competed in three main sports, each played during different seasons. In the fall, they played soccer. Winter was basketball and spring was baseball. He hated all of them, but he supposed that if he had to pick a lesser evil it would be basketball. He used to play it with his dad in the back yard when he was a kid, so it was okay, kind of.

Right now, he was headed for soccer practice. Correction – running late for soccer practice. There was a big Coastal Prep League game coming up and Coach was pressing them for extra practice. He didn't mind the strenuous sports activity, it kept him in shape, but he didn't like all the stupid pep-talk and rallying around the silly game. The BI Canes were just a stupid way to get people on the island all worked up over nothing. Varsity Soccer wasn't all that anyway. He was a good athlete, but that didn't necessarily mean that he liked playing team sports. He only did it just to pass the time, really, and to keep his dad from ranting on and on about how he should go out more and make friends instead of sitting in front of his computer all day long.

The teams were co-ed, but there weren't any girls in the junior-high classes while he was a ninth grader, so it was an all-boys' team up until now. As a sophomore, he was a part of the high-school team, which consisted of sophomores, juniors and seniors, so there were two girls on the team. His dad joked about him finally getting a chance to date, but those girls were older, and up until recently even taller than him; he has only just begun a growth spurt, which was a real nuisance because his muscles always ached as they tried to catch up with his rapidly growing bones. Puberty was a real bitch.

And besides – he didn't date.

Heading into town, he drove down Center Road on the way to school, passing by Block Island State Airport. It was a small airport, consisting of only two runways, a medium-sized hangar and an old New England style building that served as a terminal, surrounded by large green fields of grass. The American Flag flapped proudly at the front of the small gray building; a United Earth Sphere Alliance flag dangled below it. It was a general aviation airport with non-scheduled air transport operations for remuneration or hire. Small planes were scattered across its grounds. One was taking off as he rode his bike past the airfield. It was a small white Cessna taking off into the cloudy gray skies.

His dad worked as a pilot-for-hire, flying a Cessna much like the one that just flew by. His father was very busy during the summer, when tourists booked flights for travel or leisure, but during the fall when work on the island became scarce, he usually made rounds for New England Airlines, which offered regularly scheduled 12-minute flights from Westerly, Rhode Island. He was away a lot during the colder months of the year, flying supplies and whatever other odd jobs he could find so he could "put food on the table", as he said. For some reason, that was a real issue with his dad and he often wondered if it meant that he came from an underprivileged background.

He didn't mind, he was used to being alone. His dad has been gone for over a week now and was only due back tomorrow. He promised to make it back in time for the first day of school, but something came up. That was okay. He didn't need his dad to hold his hand on the first day of school; he never did. He never needed anyone to hold his hand for anything. He was fine on his own.

Block Island's School was a small red-bricked building with a plain brown rooftop and a white clock tower suitable of old New England architecture. He parked his bike by the large green outdoor playing field. Practice was already underway. Teenagers – boys and girls alike – were running across the field dressed in red sweatshirts and matching gym shorts. He unzipped his jacket, revealing a similar red sweatshirt underneath and kicked his shoes off while throwing the jacket onto the bike. He scrambled hurriedly out of the jeans, already wearing the gym shorts underneath so he wouldn't have to waste time in the locker rooms. His soccer shoes were tied to his bike, dangling from the stem. He snatched them hastily and put them on as he walked into the play field.

"Glad you could join us!" Coach rebuked him the moment he stepped onto the wet grass. "You can start by giving me five laps," he grunted, shaking his head in disappointment. "Jesus, Heero, what the Hell am I gonna do with you, huh?"

Heero ignored him and started running around the field. Even though he had just cycled across the island, he sprinted easily through all five laps, barely breaking a sweat. There was a reason why he was Coach's star athlete; he was in excellent shape and extremely disciplined. Once done serving his penalty, he joined the team for the rest of the practice, enduring it until it was finally over.

It was dark by the time he left school. Still wearing his gym clothes, Heero went back to fetch his bike. He grabbed the handlebars and rolled the bike along with him as he made his way out of the playing field and towards the main driveway in front of the school.

A red pickup-truck stood there waiting, its engine humming loudly. Heero paused and looked at the truck, frowning. His fists curled tightly around the handlebars. He stood there for a second longer before heaving a sigh and heading towards the truck. He threw his bike in the back, slamming the tailgate forcefully. He entered at the passenger's side, threw his backpack to the floor and shut door loudly. He wasn't angry or anything; at least, he didn't think he was... why should he be?

"I thought you had to fly to Connecticut," he said quietly, never turning to face the driver. There was no accusation or bitterness in his voice. It was just a plain statement spoken in a quiet monotonous voice. Those were probably the first words he had said all day, perhaps all week, since his dad went off to work on the mainland.

"I thought so too," the driver confirmed, "but the client cancelled," he grumbled irately and shifted the truck into gear. They drove off. Heero looked out the passenger window, gazing numbly at the sleepy old town.

"So you're home?" he asked, never tearing his eyes off the window as the town of New Shoreham passed by.

"Yeah, looks like it."

He finally turned to face the driver; a man in his mid-thirties dressed in worn-out blue jeans and a ragged black-leather jacket that were better suited for a guy in his twenties. Then again, his father was anything but conventional, from his unusual name to his eccentric thigh-length braid. Heero eyed the chestnut-brown rope resting over his dad's shoulder and his eyes narrowed with disdain. Why would a grown man sport such long hair anyway? And why wear it in a braid? That wasso gay, it was embarrassing.

"For how long?" He asked and his dad sighed tiredly.

"I got this gig comin' up next week, so... a few days, I guess," he said. "Then I'm off to pick up this fancy dick moving into the island or whatever... some rich guy who won't be bothered taking the ferry with the rest of us commoners. But it's good money, so... yeah. How was practice?"

Heero turned back to face the window. "Fine."

"When's the big game?"

"Next week."

"Oh man... please don't say Monday."

"...okay."

His father grimaced and turned to him with a guilty face. "Damn... I'm so sorry, Heero," he said, placing a warm hand over his shoulder. He turned to him, studying the man's face quietly. He really did look like he felt bad about missing the game.

"I'm afraid I'm gonna haffta miss it," his dad apologized softly.

"It's okay," Heero mumbled and turned to look out the window again.

"No, it's not," his father muttered guilty. "I should be there. I'm sorry."

"I don't care, really."

His father sighed quietly, as he often did when faced with his indifference. A typical fifteen-year-old, he was often accused of being apathetic, insolent and disdainful. But Heero didn't care what anyone thought. They could all drop dead for all he cared. His guidance teacher often scolded him for wasting his potential and keeping his grades at a bearable level, even though he was capable of so much more. She didn't get it and he didn't care to explain. All he wanted was to be left alone.

His dad released a weary sigh and reached to change gears. His movements were slow, tired all of a sudden. Heero studied the man's face carefully. Sometimes he feared that he was pushing it a bit too far. One day, his dad would finally get sick and tired of him and leave. Everyone did eventually. He inhaled shakily and turned his gaze out the passenger window, gazing wretchedly at the darkness cloaking the island.

They were heading up Corn Neck Road, just past the Great Salt Pond, where the land narrowed to a few dozen feet of soil; a bottle neck of sorts connecting the main landmass to a smaller, more secluded part of Block Island. They were driving along the coast now, the ocean flanking them from both sides of the road. At night, it looked like they were driving on the edge of nothing. There was nothing but black as far as the eye could see.

There were fewer houses on this part of the island, mostly ranches. They lived in a small farmhouse just off of Corn Neck Rd, overlooking the wide Great Salt Pond, a round and almost entirely enclosed body of water separating the north and south regions of the island. He could see it through his bedroom window. It was nice.

"How was the first day of school?" His father picked up the useless conversation after a while.

"Fine," he mumbled, gazing numbly out the window.

"Yeah? How's sophomore life treating you?"

"Pretty much the same."

"Meet any new friends?"

"Why?" He turned to glare spitefully at his father. "Are there any new people on the island?" he retorted nastily and his dad turned to scowl at him.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Don't bother," Heero muttered and crossed his arms over his chest. He turned to glare out the window, watching as they drove past a few desolate farmhouses. His farther turned the truck off of the main road and onto a narrow dirt road. The ride became a bit bumpy and Heero bounced a little in his seat. Looking out the windshield, he could see their old country house looming up ahead.

"I'm thinking pot-roast for dinner," his father suddenly declared with a smile, as though dinner was any reason to celebrate. He usually skipped dinner when his dad wasn't around. He wasn't hungry anyway.

"Sounds good?"

"I guess."

"Or we can eat out if you want," his dad offered.

"Yeah, okay."

"Yeah? What do you feel like having?"

"I don't know. Pot-roast is fine too."

Frustrated, his father shook his head, heaving a sigh. "I'll figure something out," he muttered and pulled into the driveway. Heero stepped out of the truck and went to retrieve his bike.