Frost Fitzsimmons, District Four

He/Him
Eighteen
District Four

I am, by definition, fucking hopeless.

For the sea, for the way the breeze tangles my dark hair, for the people that make my heart warm.

If I am defined by a word, it is longing. I’m ever-standing on the precipice of the vast unknown and thinking, ”Oh, what if?”

And that’s probably going to kill me one day. I’ll be so awash with what-ifs that I’ll drown in them.

For example:

• What if I leave this place? Take off into the sea for somewhere better?
• What if I stay? Find someone to love and make something better in the monotony? Will my family be kind to them, whoever they are? Will I find joy in the little things, or will I always wonder?
• What if I try being more tough? More guarded? More don’t-fuck-with-me? Would things go better? Or would I just suffer for the pretending?
• What if I stay, and die alone?
• What if I leave, and die unhappy?
• What if --

I could go on forever. But the truth is: I don’t have forever. One day I’m going to die, and I will have made a number of choices, and I’ll be the one on my deathbed that will have to deal with the knowledge of what I went through.

But okay. Things aren’t bad. Things are okay.

My family is good to me. I’ve just turned 18, I’m strong and self-sufficient, but they’re not nudging me out the door. It’s me, my two dads, and my adopted brother Gully, and we’re good. We’re fine. We’re fishermen, all of us, and I love looking out at the vastness of the world and feeling small.

I love spending time with them.

I don’t hate it here.

But…

What if, you know?