When I was seven, my cousin Tabitha pushed me into the deep end of our neighborhood pool and stood at the edge, watching me sink. By the time they dragged me out and pumped the water from my lungs, the terror had already taken root. Ever since, I have been afraid of the water. My family ran a bed-and-breakfast right on the rocky coast of Maine—the Wells Bay Inn. During the peak summer season, it was all hands on deck. My mother forced me to stand on the damp sand to welcome the incoming surfers. I stood there, my limbs trembling so violently that before the guests’ shuttle even arrived, I fainted. My father hauled me up by my collar in front of a dozen staring tourists. “Are you trying to ruin our business on purpose?” he roared, his voice echoing over the crashing waves. “A kid raised on the ocean, afraid of a little water? What are the guests supposed to think of us?” One afternoon, while I was exhausted and asleep, they slipped a life vest over my arms and carried me onto our family speedboat. When I opened my eyes, the shore was nothing but a thin, dark line on the horizon. We were in the middle of the open ocean. My father stood at the helm, his back to me. “You’re not coming back home until you dive in and swim a lap.” I cried on that deck until I was completely dehydrated, my throat raw and bleeding. In the end, it was the Coast Guard that towed me back to land. By nineteen, I had found my escape in scent. Perfumery didn’t require water. It only needed pure alcohol and the delicate chemistry of essential oils. I designed a custom sea-salt fragrance that caught the attention of an independent boutique brand in Boston. They sent me a contract, offering me a full-time position as their lead perfumer. When my mother found the document, she didn’t even consult me. She called the representative directly and canceled the agreement. “Our son is staying here to take over the family inn. He doesn’t have time to be a servant for your little startup.” She locked me out of my room, dragged my scent cabinet into the bathroom, and poured over two hundred bottles of essential oils down the toilet. The roaring sound of the flush filled the small space. Watching the dark oils swirl down the drain, I was suddenly five years old again, watching the water close over my head. I realized then that in all these years, I had never actually been saved. I was still at the bottom of that pool. 1 “What are you staring at? Think it’s not clean enough?” My mother’s voice cut through the ringing in my ears. She stepped over the shattered glass on the bathroom floor, using her toe to kick the shredded remains of my contract toward my knees. I knelt on the cold porcelain tiles. The toilet tank hissed as it refilled with water. A few empty, amber-colored glass vials floated in the bowl. One was Damask Rose. It had cost me nearly a hundred dollars for a tiny gram—money I had spent six months scrimping from my meager allowance. “I asked you a question. Are you mute now?” My mother walked over. She adjusted the collar of her silk robe and tapped my forehead hard with her finger. “Instead of helping with the inn, you’re wasting your time on this smelly garbage. Are you trying to give me a stroke?” I stared at the swirling water in the toilet bowl. My throat felt as though it were stuffed with a dry, thorny sponge. “That was my job,” I whispered, my voice cracked. “They offered me a contract. Four thousand a month.” My mother let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Four thousand? That’s pocket change. Your father books out a single VIP suite for a weekend and makes double that. You want to run off and work for someone else? What am I supposed to tell our guests when they ask where my son is? How is that supposed to look?” I looked up at her—at the woman I had called “Mom” for nineteen years. “If I don’t take this job, what am I supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life busing tables in your dining room?” Before she could answer, the bathroom door was kicked open. Tabitha strolled in, swaying slightly. She was holding my phone, the screen glowing in her hand. “Oh, still thinking about going to work?” Tabitha sneered, her lips curling into a yellow-toothed grin. She swiped her thumb across the screen. “I just used your account to send a little voice note to that coordinator of yours.” I bolted upright. My knees, numb from kneeling so long on the hard tile, buckled slightly. “What did you send?” I lunged to grab the phone. Tabitha stepped aside with practiced ease, driving her foot into the back of my knee. I lost my balance and crashed against the marble sink, my hip bone colliding with the sharp edge. A dull, sickening pain flared through my lower back. “What did I send?” She pressed the play button. My mother’s shrill, aggressive voice blared from the speaker: “What kind of cheap, sweatshop operation is trying to steal my son’s formulas? Stay away from him, or I’m calling the police and reporting you for harassment!” The audio ended. A second later, a red exclamation mark flared next to the contact name. Isla Burt had blocked me. She was the only person who had ever truly understood my work. The only one who had told me I had a gift. My hands began to shake uncontrollably. I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white. “Give me my phone.” Tabitha smiled, tossed her head back, and threw the phone straight into the dirty mop bucket in the corner. It hit the murky water with a heavy splash, sending gray droplets flying onto my bare ankles. “Stop whining. I did you a favor,” Tabitha said, dusting off her hands. “There are too many scammers out there. With your IQ, you’d probably get sold off and not even realize it.” I stared into the bucket, watching the tiny bubbles rise from the submerged device. It was a cheap, second-hand phone I had bought with the money I earned washing dishes during high school. I turned slowly to my mother. “She threw my phone in the trash water. Aren’t you going to say anything?” My mother didn’t look at me. She was busy smoothing down the lapels of her robe. “Tabby was just looking out for you. That phone was ancient anyway. Your father will get you one of the spare devices we keep at the front desk tomorrow.” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she looked me up and down. “Now get dressed. Put on that new high-end wetsuit we bought for the staff. There’s a major surfing club arriving this afternoon.” I froze. “I can’t. I have aquaphobia. I can’t go near the shore.” Tabitha scoffed, leaning against the doorframe. “Still playing that old tape? You’re nineteen, Jesse. You fell in a pool when you were seven and you’re still using it as an excuse to be lazy.” “It wasn’t an accident,” I said, staring directly at her. “You pushed me. You held my head under the water.” Tabitha’s face hardened. She took two strides forward and slapped the back of my head, slamming my forehead into the mirror. “Say that again, you little freak. See if I don’t drag you down to the docks and feed you to the crabs myself.” My mother stepped between us, pulling Tabitha back. “That’s enough, Tabby. Don’t bruise his face. We have clients to impress this afternoon.” She turned to me, her eyes dead. “The suit is on your bed. If you aren’t wearing it by two, you can pack your things and get out of this house.” The door slammed shut. Their footsteps faded down the hall. I slowly sank onto the floor, ignoring the shards of glass biting into my palms. I reached out and picked up the torn scrap of my contract. Isla Burt’s signature was still visible, though the ink was already beginning to bleed from the dampness of the floor. I pressed the paper against my chest. Once, this room had been filled with the scent of two hundred bottles of sea-salt and botanicals. Now, there was only the rancid, chemical smell of bleach and sewage. 2 By two o’clock, the sun was beating down on the sand like white-hot needles. I stood at the entrance of the private beach, suffocating in the tight, neon-blue wetsuit. The sand beneath my feet was scorching, but inside, I was shivering. The sound of the waves crashing against the jagged rocks felt like a dozen invisible hands wrapping around my ankles, pulling me downward. My father was sitting under a giant umbrella nearby, an icy drink in hand, laughing loudly with a group of wealthy out-of-town women. “Your boy is quite the looker, Rob,” one of them remarked, pointing a manicured finger toward me. “He looks like a Ralph Lauren model standing out there.” My father laughed, a booming, self-satisfied sound. “Oh, Jesse’s our golden boy. Raised him right here on the water. Swims like a fish.” I swallowed hard, my stomach churning. In my mind, the vast blue horizon began to distort, expanding until it mirrored the deep, tiled abyss of the pool from my childhood. The surfing club’s shuttle bus pulled up to the curb. A dozen young, athletic tourists climbed out, laughing and talking. My mother immediately put on her customer-service smile and rushed over to greet them. “Welcome, everyone! We have your oceanfront suites all ready for you. Jesse! Don’t just stand there like a statue! Get over here and help with the gear!” I dragged my heavy, unresponsive legs forward, step by step. The group leader, a young woman with polarized sunglasses, looked me over. “Nice gear. You guys take your beach service seriously.” She handed me a sleek, custom surfboard. “Careful with this. It’s carbon fiber. Worth more than your rent.” I took it from her. The smooth fiberglass still carried the damp, briny scent of the ocean. In an instant, the world tilted. The surfboard in my hands transformed into the slippery edge of the pool tile I had clawed at so desperately when I was seven. The young woman’s face blurred, replaced by Tabitha’s grinning, teenage face. “Hold your breath! I said hold it!” The auditory hallucination blasted through my mind. My hands shook violently. The expensive board slipped from my grip, crashing onto the jagged granite rocks below with a loud, sickening crack. The entire beach went dead silent. The young woman’s smile vanished, her face contorting in anger. “Are you blind?!” She shoved me hard. My foot caught on a wet rock. I stumbled backward, losing my footing entirely, and fell into the shallow tide pool. The freezing water rushed over my waist. “Help! Help me!” I screamed, thrashing wildly. I flailed my arms, kicking my legs in panic as the water splashed over my chest. “I can’t breathe! I’m drowning!” I curled into a ball, clutching my head, suffocating in less than two feet of water. Around me, the crowd erupted into laughter. “Is this guy for real?” “The water is barely to his knees. What a drama queen.” “Is this some kind of stunt for social media?” My father and mother pushed through the crowd. My father’s face had turned a deep, furious purple. He stepped into the water, grabbed me by my collar, and yanked me up like a soaked dog. “You useless, embarrassing piece of garbage!” A heavy, ringing slap landed across my face. My vision blurred, and a high-pitched hum filled my ears. The salty water, mixed with the metallic taste of blood from my split lip, trickled into my mouth. “Are you trying to ruin our business on purpose?” my father hissed under his breath. “A kid raised on the coast, afraid of water? What are the guests supposed to think of us?” I covered my face, shivering violently. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” I mumbled, my voice cracking. “I can’t… I really can’t.” My mother quickly turned to the guests, her face stretched into a strained smile. “I am so sorry, everyone. Our boy has a history of severe panic attacks. We’ll cover the cost of the board entirely, and your stay tonight is completely on the house.” She turned back to me, her hand gripping my bicep so hard her nails pierced the neoprene of my wetsuit, digging into my skin. “Get to the linen room and stay there,” she whispered, her voice dripping with venom. “No dinner for you tonight.” I don’t remember how I walked back to the utility building. The whispers and stares of the tourists followed me like a physical weight. “Is he mentally ill?” “He looks completely unstable.” “Stay away from him. He might snap.” I pushed open the door to the linen room. It was a windowless space packed with piles of unwashed sheets and heavy tablecloths, smelling of sour dampness and harsh industrial bleach. I slid down the wall into the dark, my head resting against a stack of cold towels. I reached into my pocket, but it was empty. I didn’t even have a way to call for help anymore. Then, I thought of Dr. Gregory Ross. He was the only general practitioner in our small coastal town who also handled psychiatric consultations. Six months ago, he had prescribed me anti-depressants. He had told me, “If things ever get too heavy, Jesse, you come straight to my office.” I stood up, grasping onto that memory like a lifeline. While the staff was busy hosting the reception out front, I slipped out the back door and ran toward the town clinic. If I could just get a formal diagnosis—something in writing to prove I was truly ill—I could go to the police. I could finally find a way to leave this place. 3 I ran until my lungs felt like they were filled with hot lead. When I burst into Dr. Ross’s office, he was sitting at his desk, typing up patient charts. He looked up, startled by my disheveled, wet appearance and the sand clinging to my face. “Jesse? What happened to you?” I stumbled forward, gripping the edge of his desk to keep from collapsing. “Dr. Ross, please. You have to help me.” My voice came out in ragged gasps, tears spilling over my cheeks. “They poured my oils down the drain. They forced me into the water… they’re going to kill me. Please, write me a diagnosis for severe clinical depression or PTSD. I need to show the police. I need to get away.” Dr. Ross stood up slowly. He reached for a box of tissues and handed one to me, but his movements were stiff, hesitant. He didn’t look me in the eye. Instead, his gaze flicked toward the desk phone. “Jesse, calm down,” he said quietly. “Your mother already called me.” My hands froze. The warmth drained from my chest, replaced by an icy, hollow dread. “My mother?” Dr. Ross sighed, pulling open a drawer and extracting a folder. “She called about thirty minutes ago. She told me you’ve been having severe delusions lately because of your obsession with chemical mixtures. She said you had a breakdown in front of the guests today.” He looked at me with a soft, patronizing pity. “Jesse, psychiatric treatment requires family support. Your mother is very concerned about you. She’s decided to admit you to the psychiatric wing at Woodhaven Clinic tomorrow morning for a full evaluation and long-term treatment.” I took a step back, knocking over a metal IV stand behind me. It clattered loudly against the floor. “She’s lying,” I whispered, shaking my head. “I don’t have delusions! I’m not crazy! They’re the ones doing this to me!” Dr. Ross’s expression only grew more pitying—the clinical, detached pity reserved for the deeply unstable. “Look at yourself, Jesse,” he said, pointing to my trembling hands. “You’re highly volatile right now. You’re showing classic signs of persecutory delusions. Just sit down. Let me give you a mild sedative, and I’ll call your parents to come pick you up.” He reached for the telephone receiver. I turned and bolted out the door. “Jesse! Stop!” Dr. Ross called out, but I didn’t listen. I ran down the narrow alleyway behind the clinic, my heart hammering against my ribs, heading straight for the regional bus station. I had to get to Boston. I had to find Isla Burt. If I could just talk to her face-to-face, if I could explain what had happened, she would understand. I could still be saved. I searched my pockets, but I didn’t have a single dollar on me. A gray regional bus was idling at the platform, the driver leaning against the door, smoking a cigarette. “Please, sir, let me on,” I begged, grabbing his arm. “I need to get to the city. I’ll find a way to pay you as soon as we arrive. Please.” The driver flicked his ash, looking me up and down with disgust. “No cash, no ride, kid. I’m not running a charity here. Move along.” He shoved me back. Before I could plead again, a black SUV screeched to a halt at the edge of the platform. The doors flew open. Tabitha jumped out, flanked by two burly kitchen hands from the inn. “Run all you want, Jesse. Where do you think you’re going?” Tabitha sneered, swinging a heavy rubber baton in her right hand. The bystanders waiting for the bus quickly took several steps back. I backed up against the side of the bus, my hands scraping against the metal exterior. There was nowhere left to run. “Stay away from me,” I choked out, looking around for anything to defend myself with. There was nothing but gravel and dry leaves. Tabitha stepped forward and grabbed me by the back of my wet collar, twisting the fabric until I could barely breathe. “I told my aunt you were a stray dog that needed to be kept on a short leash,” she grunted, signaling the two men to drag me toward the SUV. “Help! Please! I don’t know these people!” I screamed, turning toward the crowd. “Someone call the police!” An older couple hesitated, taking a step forward. Tabitha immediately put on an expression of deep, performative grief. “I’m so sorry about the noise, everyone. This is my cousin. He suffers from severe bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. He had a breakdown this morning and tried to attack his mother with a knife. We’re just trying to get him to the hospital before he hurts himself.” Hearing this, the couple retreated instantly, their faces hardening into expressions of fear and disgust. “Oh, poor family.” “No wonder he looks so feral.” “Better let them handle him.” The bus driver quickly stepped inside and closed the door. I was dragged to the SUV and shoved into the backseat. The child locks clicked into place. Tabitha climbed into the passenger seat and lit a cigarette. She exhaled a cloud of gray smoke, looking back at me through the rearview mirror as the two men pinned my arms down. “Do you really think anyone is going to save you, Jesse?” She laughed softly. “You should have drowned when you were seven. You’re just a waste of space anyway.” I closed my eyes. In the darkness of my mind, I heard the final, fragile structure of my hope collapse into dust. There were no paths left. I was completely alone. 4 They locked me back in the linen room. This time, they secured the door with a heavy brass padlock. There were no windows, and the light overhead had been switched off from the outside. I curled up on a pile of damp, discarded sheets, staring into the dark. I don’t know how many hours passed before a thin sliver of light appeared at the bottom of the door. A smartphone was slid through the narrow gap. It belonged to Daisy, the teenage maid who had started working at the inn a month ago. She was always getting yelled at by my mother, and I had helped cover for her mistakes a few times. The screen was unlocked, displaying a local community forum page. The headline was in bold, red letters: “My Heart Breaks: How My Son’s Severe Delusions Are Ruining Our Family.” The author was my mother. The post was incredibly detailed. It featured the video of my panic attack on the beach, photos of my shattered essential oil bottles, and even a forged toxicological screening report. “My son became addicted to synthetic chemicals while trying to make his “perfumes,” she wrote. “Now he is suffering from severe, drug-induced hallucinations. He has turned on his own family, accusing his loving cousin of childhood abuse, and trying to sabotage our livelihood. As his mother, my heart is shattered. If anyone in town sees him wandering around in a manic state, please contact us immediately. Do not approach him.” I scrolled down to the comments. There were hundreds of them. “Looks like another junkie. They should just lock him up.” “What a waste of a pretty face. He’s completely gone.” “Rob and Miriam are saints for dealing with this.” “If he were my kid, I’d have beaten the crazy out of him long ago.” I scrolled further. My middle school and high school group chats were filled with screenshots of the post. People I had sat next to in class, people I thought were my friends, were all busy deleting me and drawing boundaries. This was what it felt like to be erased while you were still breathing. Footsteps echoed outside. The phone was quickly pulled back through the gap beneath the door. The padlock clicked, and the door swung open. My mother stood in the doorway, holding a crisp, white linen dress shirt. “Wash your face and put this on,” she said, her voice remarkably calm, almost gentle. “We’re hosting a bonfire on the beach tonight for your father’s prospective investors. I want you to go out there, pour some drinks, and mingle.” I didn’t move. I stared at her through the shadows. “You’ve already convinced the entire town I’m a dangerous junkie. Aren’t you afraid I’ll embarrass you?” My mother smiled coldly. “On the contrary. Having our ‘troubled’ son there, looking clean and polite, will show everyone how incredibly forgiving and patient we are as parents. Besides, some of those female investors like pretty, quiet boys. If you make them happy, we might just forget about Woodhaven.” I looked at the white shirt. I felt an overwhelming, crushing exhaustion. I didn’t even have the energy to feel angry anymore. I stood up, stripped off the dry, stiff wetsuit, and put on the clean white shirt. I followed her out of the room like a ghost, walking toward the brightly lit courtyard. The bonfire was roaring, the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat mixing with the salty ocean breeze. As I reached the edge of the patio, my eyes locked onto someone sitting at the far end of the long wooden table. Isla Burt. She was wearing a simple cream-colored dress, holding a glass of club soda, listening to my father speak with a slight frown. My heart leaped. She had come. She hadn’t given up on me. She must have realized the voice note was a lie and came to find the truth. I quickened my pace, moving toward her. “Isla!” Before I could take another step, my mother’s hand clamped over my mouth from behind, dragging me back. “Ah, Isla,” my father said, smiling warmly as he pointed toward me. “This is our boy, Jesse. The one we spoke about.” Isla turned her head. Her eyes met mine. There was no warmth in her gaze. Only a clinical, distant assessment, and a faint hint of revulsion. “Mr. Wells, about the contract…” Isla started. My mother stepped forward, holding her phone out before Isla could finish. “Miss Burt, please don’t take anything he says to heart. He’s very unwell. This is what happened on the beach just this afternoon.” She hit play on the video. There I was, thrashing and screaming in a foot of water like a lunatic. Isla’s frown deepened as she watched. She looked from the screen back to my face. I shook my head violently, pulling my mother’s hand away. “No! It’s not like that! I have PTSD! They forced me into the water!” I pleaded, stepping forward. “Isla, please, you have to believe me! I’m not crazy!” Isla took a step back, her expression freezing into one of cold disappointment. “Mr. Wells,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the noise of the party. “A person who cannot govern their own mind cannot govern the delicate nuances of scent. We cannot use your formulas. I’m sorry for the intrusion.” She set her glass down, turned, and walked out of the inn’s courtyard. She didn’t look back once. I stood frozen, watching her silhouette disappear into the coastal fog. Around me, the fire crackled, and my father’s booming voice rose as he escorted the remaining guests. The last thread holding my mind together snapped. I turned and walked away. I didn’t go back to the linen room; I went to my own bedroom. My mother was too busy with the investors to notice. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the very last intact formula sheet. I wrote a single line at the bottom, then tucked the paper beneath my pillow. The night was freezing, and the ocean wind was bitter. I slipped past the firelight, down the rocky path, and onto the dark sand. The water rose to my knees, then to my chest. That dark, swirling depth that had been waiting for me since I was seven years old finally opened its arms, and I let myself go.
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