^{_{(TW: Implied drug use, implied suicide, heavily implied assault)}}

It’s idyllic.  

A little cottage, made of nothing more than red bricks and mortar. Lush hills to the West, its meadows rolling on as far as the eye could see. Gentle waves lapping at the shore to the East.  

No one in sight.  

His very own utopia.

He visits every night and stays for a week. 

He waters his tomatoes and strawberries and harvests them on some days. He goes fishing when the sun sets, a lone figure on an old wooden boat. He returns to his cottage to make himself dinner. He sleeps, and he wakes, and he returns to his farm.  

Only when a week passes does he wake.  

If only each day were the same. Serene, tranquil, only the wind exchanging whispers with him and no one else. 

There didn’t need to be anyone else.

———

They say dystopia only exists in books.

Yet, to him, it is very much real. 

Not the gloomy, filthy urban streets; rather, the injustice and oppression.

He trudges along his way, frail legs and thin arms and sunken cheeks to boot. A rather sorry sight for all he meets. 

He does not look up, does not dare. Just minds his own business.

Still, they step into his way. 

“So, what did you dream of last night?” They ask.  

Run.  

“Nothing.” He responds. His nails scratch along his arms. Elbow to wrist, wrist to elbow, and elbow back to wrist. 

“Why? Did you go fishing again?” They prod, just barely keeping the sneer out of their tones. “Did your boat overturn this time?”

Run. 

His hands tremble. His breath is wrong, uneven, clawing up his throat and squeezing his lungs. The walls tighten, the air thins. 

He can hear the water roaring in his ears. Feel the water filling his lungs. 

A voice calling his name, laughter twisting it into something sharp and ugly. Fingers pressing against his skull. Shoving. Holding. 

His lungs burn, his body weakens. Shadows ripple around and above and everywhere. 

There is a face. A grin. A pair of hands firmly pressing down on his nape.

Run.

He didn’t want his boat to overturn. He didn’t want to drown. He must run before the storm catches up to him. 

Not again. Not again. Not again.

He runs. 

———

It’s idyllic. 

A cottage, meadows and waves. No one in sight. 

This utopia is kinder. The storm never comes here. The air is lighter.

He waters his tomatoes and strawberries. He goes fishing when the sun sets. He returns to his cottage to make himself dinner. He sleeps, and he wakes, and he returns to his farm. 

If only each week lasted longer. 

He didn’t want to go back.

———

Waking hurts.

His body is sluggish. He doesn’t feel his limbs, as though they weren’t there. Everything is cold and sharp and loud. 

Days bleed into each other. He flinches at the sound of laughter. 

They don’t need to try hard. A shove, a whisper, a jeer. A stolen bottle, a torn notebook, broken glasses. 

He walks slower. Blinks slower. Speaks less. 

All he can do is shrink under their gazes. Feel the weight of their expectations. It presses in, familiar. It feels like the hands around his throat.

He escapes to the cottage, the sea, the meadows, the stillness, his utopia.

A day is too long. A week is too short.

———

So, he musters up the courage. 

“How much?”

“16 dollars.”

And at first, it was just to dull the edge of reality, to blur the lines. 

But the days were too long, and the weeks too short. 

———

No one in sight. 

A little cottage, made of nothing more than red bricks and mortar. Lush hills to the West, its meadows rolling on as far as the eye could see.

Tomatoes ripen and fall and rot and grow. Strawberries ripen and fall and rot and grow. 

The waves lap the shore, over and over and over. The fish are caught, over and over and over. 

Finally, he didn’t have to return to dystopia. Finally, he could stay.

It’s idyllic.