Drowning blue

It wasn't until the show was over that Thrasher saw the missed call on his phone. Erica had been in a car accident, and he was the only emergency contact.

Blame and fear swept over him in an instant, like a terrifying wave. Thrasher had no idea how he had driven to the hospital. The tide of trepidation pushed him into the dimly blue ward. Her life was not in danger, but it was not yet known when she would wake up. Erica lay among the medical instruments. Her slumbering face was pale and cold in the faint light, as if she had become a corpse. Thrasher stared at her dully. He was so familiar with the shape of her eyes, the curve of her jaw. The idea that she probably will stay forever like this makes his fingertips shake.

He could vividly recall the day he first met that face. It was late July evening, and the last few sunsets had left two pinkish-purple burning traces in the gray-blue sky. There was a small local music festival going on, and bands and orchestras of some renown in the neighborhood had been invited, including the one he stayed in, St.Blessing Bird. The stage was improvised on the beach. Erica was wearing a black leather jacket; her dark brown hair was tied casually in a ponytail. She sat on a folding chair, holding her guitar case in one hand as she waited for Thrasher's rehearsal to finish. The girl wore several necklaces around her neck, both long and short. A small, arrow-shaped silver pendant gleamed in the spotlight. The rock band Erica had formed was called Sagitta, and she was the lead singer as well as the guitarist.

Thrasher had been through a lot, and each experience left him indelible scars. The scars are still there today, except he is trying to start doing something else while suffering from them. Thrasher's parents died young, and until their deaths, they used their son as an experimental subject for cyborg implants. His adoptive father was a pedophile with alcohol and drug addiction. As for the classical orchestra he had been a part of, most of the members there were complete jerks and bullied him with more than verbal humiliation.

When Thrasher was in his predicament, he never thought about how to break free. It was as if his soul and mind were in a coma; they had been frozen in the never-ending cold, leaving only bare flesh and blood. Though he was not dead, he had no reason to live. Then one day, Erica showed up on her motorcycle, stubbornly determined to take him away and promising he would never suffer. She drove him along the coastal road towards the city, the moon's silvery glow mild and bright, the sea sparkling. Neither of the two spoke. In past times, he had always remained numbly silent while longing to escape the embarrassing quiet. But that moment, when the cool summer breeze swept past his ears, Thrasher actually felt he did not need to speak. He felt comfortable about it, and Erica probably felt the same.

Erica kept her promise. She did all she could to encourage Thrasher to leave his own trace. And so, after twenty-five years, he finally picked up his brush, trembling and hesitating, contemplating what colors to paint on this world.

As a guide, Erica showed Thrasher her life. She held Thrasher's hand, dragged him to the movies, danced with the band's improvisations, got wet in the rain, and laughed. Erica Maria Valentine. That is her full name. Thrasher felt that these two conflicting qualities coexisted in her. She was indeed young and free, but sometimes she also showed a certain deep, almost motherly care and patience in his presence. Thrasher used to hear nothing but insults. No one had ever spoken to him with as much genuine appreciation as she had. You have beautiful eyes. You are doing well. You deserve to be loved, and I love you. Sometimes he would even drift off and think that he didn't seem so bad, but then he immediately condemned that thought with guilt. Erica could always see the good side of everything. In her opinion, even he is great.

Feel it, enjoy it; that is what I have always done. Thrasher remembers Erica said so when they started watching a virtual experience tape. They were strolling in the recorded ocean. After countless editing and adjustments, the sea was flipped upside down. Upwards was the borderless cobalt blue space, and where their feet stood would stir up foam and waves. White jellyfish hovered lightly, like moving sparks, and bionic whale occasionally swam past them, slowly, its translucent bellies echoing with ethereal whispers. Do you like it? She asked.

When he brought himself back, Thrasher discovered he was standing on that seaside road again. He seemed to be looking for something, but he could not remember. In front of him is a giant stone statue, eyes closed, and the night sky is like her cobalt blue shawl. There is divine compassion in her calm, gentle expression. Her head just covered the moon as if she were wearing a dreamy silver halo. The jellyfish in the air like starbursts. Just as Thrasher recognized it as Erica, a colossal whale suddenly rolled over and leaped up, its belly instantly beginning to flash rapidly and repeatedly as if a glitch. The second movement of Mozart's Requiem suddenly rang out loud and cleared; the whale heavily crushed the sea horizon and, with it, collapsed the path beneath his feet.

Thrasher sinks into the ocean with Erica and sees fluorescent blue tears flood her eyes. This is your fault. Thrasher heard his own voice condemning. Why do you always fail? Why can't you do anything? Why can't you protect her? This is all your fault. The fishy, salty water choked into his mouth, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Thrasher fought to struggle. You're useless. You can't do anything. You can't do anything. The condemnations grow faster and faster, and the sounds become louder and louder, all from the abyss of memories he did not want to recall. YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING. THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.

He awoke with a start.

Thrasher was sitting on the side of the hospital bed, and the only sound in the suffocatingly silent room was the harsh, steady ticking of Erica's heartbeat monitor.