I always thought I’d drown like Martha did. Thrown overboard with anchors attached, Fighting to breath, discovered six days later, reduced to a skeleton, tangled in a lobster trap.

My brother and I delivered her daily newspaper. She was on the front page. Martha was murdered by the hands of her own emptiness, seeking anyone attentive, even the likes of a murderer.

Camden College was my suffocation.  I was submerged in a body of trust funds, weighed down by has been teachers and frightened into catatonia by my own lost generation.

***

The second stage of drowning is involuntary breath holding.

Welcome to Camden College.

Camden was notorious for its liberal education, incestuous hook-ups and the belief that self-destruction was the new black.

Classroom discussions were cyclical arguments and intellectual competitions, never amounting to anything profound because nobody got grades.

I was imperceptible to many, including teachers, defeating the very reason why I came to a small school.

Afraid of the expectation of not being accepted, I diluted myself. From tears to the bottle, I was going.

***

You see Martha walking her dog, Rudy, by beach. They wouldn’t stop and play anymore. I watched her while undulating with the waves in my inflated donut.

Not a stop to take a breath, she was on a mission; involuntary to her own actions, the death of a star. You began to see less and less of her.

***

It’s 7pm. You Start Drinking. Alone. At least you have your own

Gin and Tonic. You’re always well prepared.

You changed outfits 8 times. You spent too much time looking at his ex girlfriends’ pictures. No one will even notice your efforts to look good. Midterms start next week.

Fuck

Sip.

At one last attempt, you spray yourself with stolen Vera Wang Princess. You finish your drink, take a swig from the bottle of gin, and stumble out of your prison to the party across the lawn.

Do you remember where you are going?

Your heels sink into the muddy grass, every other step. Smoosh smooosh.

You look over towards the green mountains, what everyone calls the end of the world, why can’t the stars be this bright everywhere..

The echoes of the party you are about to go to in Canfield, sounds lame, but whatever. Free booze is worth the social suicide. Johnny boy invited you over for drinks in Canfield, remember? Everyone is going to be there. I think. I hope.

***

Martha disappeared. There was no trace of her. Search parties looked for 6 days. You saw a picture of her on the front page wearing her luau grass dress.

She looked so happy that you barely recognized her.

***

Lit up like gasoline and its only 8:30. You’re pathetic. You wanted to get there before everyone else raped him of his alcohol supply, which was slim to begin with.

It’s not like you’ll be talking to anyone until you’re wasted anyways. It’s hard to hate everyone when you’ve had a few.

You can’t believe it was only a year ago when Johnny boy lived in the Canfield card room. Everything changed once he came out.

He moved to the upstairs corner double in Canfield House, sharing it with the hottest mess on campus, Sam Pine. Johnny was now a part of The Canfield Army.

Johnny boy was a ginger from Virginia Beach. His folks didn’t know he was queer, or the fact he’d slept with about 20 men before he was 18. Johnny drank whatever he was given. Subordinate.

You ripped your nylons; you think it’ll add character.

***

Shut down and paralyzed in Sam and Johnny’s room. Johnny’s side was lonely and unidentifiable, plain and empty.

Sam’s side was a functioning mini bachelor pad. Fully furnished with a green tattered recliner chair, several foldout chairs, a coffee table, a killer stereo system, and a halo 3 poster. His drink was vodka, straight out of the bottle. It was hard not to be attracted to him; Pine had the most beautiful eyes, alluring and sinful.

Rigid and cold, I sat in Johnny’s corner on a milk carton, stashed away like a fine wine, impaired by the clouds of smoke. It’s 11:00pm…Do you know where your children are?

The heater was clicking. How long have I been here?

The smoke had finally risen, like smog over Los Angeles.

Our main players are in sight.

***

Hey, do you have any Rush?

This is Rush

Oh, yeah, I thought it sounded familiar.

Em rolled her eyes away from me as she sat perched on the arm of recliner chair. She’s from Venice Beach. Em curled her boyish body around her parliament lights, as she hovered over Sam’s every move. She drank whatever Sam drank.

Sam was selecting the music.

Frank Sinatra “Nice n’ Easy”

If there was one consistent thing about Sam it was his promiscuity. During his on/off dependent relationship with Em, the talented, lanky, guitarist from

Connecticut slept with every girl that showed interest. Whenever he got drunk he told everyone he hated Em, and that she was a cutter.

Speaking of which, I’m too drunk already.

***

My first friend Patrick and I use to catch crabs at the shore surrounding the beach. His grandmother was the last person to see Martha before her disappearance. Patrick’s grandmother said that she seemed disconnected and worn by her loneliness; unconscious to herself.

***

I think about Anne. She used to live in the room across the hall. She was forced to take a “medical leave”. Anne got lost. She was also a nymphomaniac-bitch so this didn’t help her sanity.  She funded most of the debauchery, even if it put her in the red zone. She was a Pink Champagne, bitter and cheap but pretty.

***

The interviewed my brother about Martha’s disappearance on the news.

***

Sara, and Rory were mid-conversation. They were sitting on Johnny boy’s bed. The original Stokes Girls (hipsters with saggy breasts and vulnerable thighs from either L.A. or the Upper Eastside).

Oh, my god I’m totally channeling Fairuza Balk from The Craft

I don’t think it counts as “channeling” if your constantly embodying it. 24 hours a day, 4 elements a week, I need a drink, stat.

Sara was a car bomb. Thick and sweet, she was the fat rich girl; her parents produced some movie I’ve never seen. Her only interests were her boyfriend and the movie “Serial Mom”.

Rory drank full bottles of red wine. She was a Courtney Love wannabe from Los Angeles. Blood red lips and a black heart.

Rory had such a big mouth. Literally.

What the hell did you just say to me?

I think I just said that out loud.

I just thought you should know I guess. I bet you could fit a lot of grapes…or even your whole fist; it’s a hidden talent…in some countries.

Rory slapped me in the face with her disassociated stare. I wasn’t worth anything. Tomorrow she won’t even remember why she hates me but she will continue to.

Good Ole Skip drunkenly fell onto the bed next to Sara and Rory. He was the best distraction. what a sport Skip was.

Always dressed to a tee. The 18 million dollar trustfund. He was a black coffee by day and too many Vodka Redbulls by night. Skip was known for his crude behavior while intoxicated, such an androgynous train wreck. With all the money in the world, Skip hadn’t a care or worry. I pitied him.

***

Martha was a beautiful woman. She had a sparkling tan with a gorgeous smile that could cheer up a rainy day. How could someone so beautiful feel so ugly and neglected inside. Isn’t that what the media promises? If we look good enough we’ll find true love? If we starve ourselves we will be revered.

How could someone so beautiful be so empty?

***

There was Wise next to him. Poor little thing couldn’t go anywhere alone. What a Texan beauty. She was a Tab with Vodka. I didn’t even know they still made Tab. With the delicate wave of her manicured nail, a camel light sparkled. She sucked hard. She was an outdated soft drink with a cancerous sugar substitute. The Glassy-eyed doll pursed her lips, ready for her close up. She was a figment encapsulated by a snapshot, an image emitting perfection. Maybe it was the two abortions, or the fact that I was seeing her ex boyfriend, Pittsburgh we’ll call him. He was the one that made her popular, and the one that kept me a secret.

Wolf was a conniving, underweight, chain smoker from Stokes.  He was a dry martini with onion. A lonely lush at heart, which is why he probably thought he was the next Virginia Woolf.

What was I talking about?

***

You see an Akira poster. You walked into the wrong room. You don’t even live in Sawtell anymore. You woke up some Larper (people that larp dress like its Halloween everyday). He yells at you.

I’m so sorry

You run out of the house. You lost a shoe but you can’t go back into Sawtell. You don’t even live on Third Street anymore. You told your second and third street friends you moved to First Street to be closer to the library. You really wanted to feel closer to where Pittsburgh use to live. He lived in Swan. It smelled of stale cigarettes and vanity but always made you feel something real. How you missed sneaking over to Pittsburgh’s room.

***

I woke up naked. My clothes were all over my floor.

***

The autopsy showed that Martha had drowned, but her soul had dropped anchor years before.

***

My suitemate, Karen, told me I passed out in the shower. I don’t even remember getting in the shower. I don’t remember anything.

She found my limp, shivering body in the fetal position. I was dead weight, with black gobs of mascara dripping from closed eyes all over my wan body. Drenched and overwhelmed.

***

Martha wanted a companion. She was supposedly happily married, and living in community in which nearly everyone had a boat, why would she be so inclined to go out alone with a man that she hardly knew? A lonely heart led her to trust anyone who would listen. Martha wanted something to live for.

***

I refused to drown in my self-loathing pity. I had to escape and find out who I was before that same void consumed me as it did to Martha.

There was a sort of comfort in their disillusionment.. I had surrendered to their emptiness, and lost myself in the desire to be hollow. I wanted to be like Wise, a beautiful, fragile shell floating through life unconsciously.

***

Pittsburgh called you. He told you that last night you told Good Ole Skip that you were “so glad Chrissie didn’t give him HPV”.

You’re confused until you get flashbacks confirming this conversation.

Shit.

You’re shocked how good of memory he has for a drunken bastard.

Stop diluting yourself.

I’m sorry, I love you.

You’re not sure if meant it.

***

After Martha’s body was discovered by a fisherman, a neighborhood family, The Boylston’s, took Rudy under their wing. Martha’s husband could barely take care of himself and he couldn’t be reminded of Martha.

***

Wise re-tagged pictures of her and Pittsburgh on FaceSpace. You make yourself a drink and give Pittsburgh a call.

I found her diary over field work term and she was cheating on me with the production intern at the theater company. It wasn’t my baby.

A drama guy? No offense but I’m fairly certain she’s an evil Disney princess.

He laughs.

Does that make me prince charming?

Hardly….

You smile.

***

All of the children of the Juniper Community Club redesigned the beach’s water fountain as a memorial for Martha. We decorated it with beautiful shells and sea glass.

***

I have long since left the school. No more cocktail asphyxiations. I withdrew and transferred. I can breathe again. I have now seen the Pacific Ocean. The salt less breeze lacks those memories of my childhood.

All that remains of Camden are my fragmented regrets. There are leftover cigarette butts, scattered beer caps, and a false reality, engulfing a generation into uncertainty.

———–

About the Author:

Marykate Linehan was born on the old carnival grounds in Tupelo, Mississippi . Her father was a pixie duster spreader on the tilt-whirl and her mother was the state champ at estimating people’s weight. She’s a skilled mind-reader, and a flam juggling extraordinaire. Marykate has spent time doing research in the hobo jungles of the southwest.