Deep Water [OuterBanks]

25: dead man walking

Alana Kessler was no stranger to loss. Grief had crept up and made its home in her headspace at a relatively young age, carrying an immense amount of gloom, and a promise of collateral damage. In the beginning there were days when the hurt was like an unbearable scream, wielding so much agony that she wanted to tear her ears off. Other days it was quiet, barely noticeable—allowing her soul an opportunity to heedlessly pick up the pieces and begin repairing the damage that had been dealt. In retrospect, her father's death caused her to realize that grief wasn't something that could be fixed—that it wasn't something you just got over. Time would aid, and the pain might lessen, but like a broken bone that still ached on rainy days, it never completely left.

Nearly a month had gone by, and Alana still looked for John B in any and everything. She saw him in the bandana printed scrunchie she used for her hair, and in the sunsets that hung over the marsh, bleeding warm, intense colors that reminded her exactly of his amber eyes. She saw his freckles in the stars from her bedroom window, and his smile in the photos from her disposable camera. Although, candidly speaking, the sixteen year old wasn't the only one missing her friend. Summer was fleeting, and despite the absence of their de-facto leader, the remainder of the Pogue's were dealing with John B's death in their own way. Pope immediately stuck his nose back into his books, reading and rereading Moby Dick, as he focused on school that was approaching faster than any of them would care to admit. Kiara cried at least once a week—in her car, or in the shower, and not just for John B, but for Sarah as well. She outwardly buried her pain, and in result had become the embodiment of anger, and impulsivity; verbally dragging Ward and Rafe Cameron through the mud any chance she got, while overcompensating through getting high and various other means. Plausibly, JJ had taken it the hardest and even though he wasn't coping much differently than Kiara, Alana ostensibly became distracted from her own grief, trying to ensure that her ocean-eyed boy wouldn't fall apart. He spent majority of his time working at the Island Inn, or doing other odd jobs, seeing as it kept him out of his head for a while—and once that was over he filled the void with weed, or sex, or other random things to pass the time, like stick and poke tattoos.

"Easy." Alana winced as the needle pierced her flesh for what felt like the five-hundredth time, this pass going a bit too deep. The blonde was laid out flat on her bed, wearing nothing but her underwear and a cropped cami as a golden dusk shifted in through the openings in her blinds.

JJ sat upright next to her, the fast dying rays of light hitting his bare chest in all the right places as Alana studied his concentration face. "My bad." He uttered, adjusting his grip on the pencil. A pair of khaki overalls covered his lower half, the top part hanging loosely at his waist, and a backwards blue and white cap covering his hair.

"Is it crazy that we haven't even started yet, and I'm already thinking of skipping class." Alana mused out, the feel of JJ's fingers on her skin enough of a distraction as he branded P4L onto her hip. The letters were small, no bigger than a centimeter, and he had etched the exact same thing onto his ankle a few days ago, because truthfully the mantra went deeper than most people figured, and in a sense, they would be Pogue's for life. No matter the circumstance, no matter the distance.