A Great Notion

Weiss Schnee

The Pacific coastline of Oregon has always been, and in my opinion will always be, the most beautiful place in the world to throw oneself off a cliff; I remember first thinking that when my mother showed me Sometimes a Great Notion for the first time. Morbid for a twelve-year-old girl, but the salt smothered shores of Waldport has not been one of life's disappointments, even after another ten years of buildup.

No amount of 1970s film could recreate the smell, though. Summer time's cool enough to leave the windows open, and so with consciousness comes the scent of seawater and the tides overwhelming my tinnitus.

I'm awake by twelve, up by one, and out on the porch with a fist full of pills and Pabst at fifteen-till-two. Comparatively, I've made excellent time. Sun's out of view, but I've noticed in Oregon it always is. Instead, the cloud cover glows a blue-white with little cracks to provide the world with all the sunlight it needs. Like God turned down the dimmers. I like it.

This place has been the much-needed bandage on top to the fading salve of my medication. The prescribed cocktail never did as much as my parents or even I think I need. Just another few notches lower on the lights during mental health's perpetual hangover. It's mostly the benign and banal side effects that let me know it's even doing anything. These are far from "happy pills".

I'd expect a bigger bang considering a side effects list ending with "thoughts of suicide." That's not even the full depth of the cosmic irony; the nature of why is a whole other comedic nugget. Antidepressants just prop me up enough to get out of bed or function with a handful of tasks. It can dull the draining frustration or energize you just enough to start again, get up, get through the day, and maybe take enough control of your life. Which means, for some people, finally enough of a can-do attitude to reach for the off switch.

In comes two lungfuls of salt air, and the train of thought is derailed. I'm onto my plans for tonight with a morbid giddiness. I've picked out my favorite monochrome pea coat, matching boots, and put work into my hair. My date tonight might be just twenty feet of solid jutting ocean rock, but like my mother used to say: "Never wear bad underwear. You can be hit by a car any day of the week, and you're going to want to be pretty for the coroner."

Two hours from dusk and I'm out on the coastal road, a two-lane freeway from which all the gravel villages grow off like tumors. Mostly it's empty space. Heading north, the right side is a sharp incline of trees occasionally broken up by old glass blowing kilns and fudge shoppes, more than can possibly compete in such a sparse area. One shop always catches my eyes between Waldport and Newport, an actual Needful Things branded storefront sitting very awkwardly by itself. I suppose if the sea doesn't work out, I can always kill myself via Stephen King.

Despite the occasional hints of northwestern gothic, I can't imagine anyone could keep focused away from the alternative, the left side. At the edge of the road are only steel barriers and a sharp cliff face with nothingness beyond, glimmering for miles with a dark blue hue. The Pacific churns in and out, lining the occasional rocky beach with driftwood, sometimes all the way from Asia. The sunlight that does beam through the clouds bounces back in pockets of occasional gold and glowing auburns. By now the sun should start drifting closer to the horizon and into view over the waters. I surprise even myself with how much I want it to, just one last time.

Heading down the coastal road, Seal Rock comes into view beyond a curve. It's only—if only is the right word—two mossy black boulders that rise twenty feet out of the waters. They look like grave stones, probably for the seals that got kicked off these rocks and away from their prime real estate. It's considered a national heritage site, though only a dirt lot the size of three cars and the cracked, rotted sign advertise it as such. Some things don't need neon billboards or statue epitaphs to let you know they're important. The smaller of two rocks is still ten feet up from me while I park my little rented bug next to the path.

Outside, the wind's been whipped up by the sea and, even with my hair tied back, loose strands clog up my view. The path breaks off here: one a green road up to the heavenly hill top. The other dips down, black and rocky towards the wet path between the twin rocks.

Of course, I descend. The path twists around the solid body and before I know it, I'm down on the wet Swiss cheese bridge between them. Sea anemones sit tight waiting for the tide to come in and drown this whole place. Their little red tentacles wriggle like the tips of lit matches, quickly closing whenever a water surge sends droplets into their mouths. Every few seconds a crack in the rock face or holes big enough for a person, launch spouts of water into the air. I wonder what would happen if someone slipped down these eroded pits with all that churning water in the chasm below. Intrusive thoughts come in waves asking: How many bodies might be under here? Would anyone ever find them?

I don't slip, even if my knees wobble whenever a water spike licks me. All roads end somewhere eventually and the big brother of Seal Rock greets me. It looks like the shell of an egg, cut in half and left on its split. The stone has eroded into a wet curve fitted with holes and pockets that my brain can't help but declare must be filled with bugs and snakes. I'd seen neither in Oregon.

I begin the climb. The rock's sharp edges nick at my fingertips and I immediately regret my choice of heeled boots. I achieve max scuffing on my shoes and coat by the top even as the curve eases the climb. Once my eyes pass the threshold, I actually stop caring.

Twenty feet might seem short, but imagine standing atop a giant turtle's shell at sea. I twirl and waves are all around and the coastal edge, the rest of the world and its curses beyond a stone's throw away. Here's my patch of grassy earth, no more than four of me across. Surprisingly, white chickweed flowers grow here.

I feel disturbingly invincible, despite the rapid blasts of wind. Maybe it's because I know I could walk off the edge of my world with ten strides in any direction. Seal Rock does not disappoint.

Then my belly drops with a ten-pound weight of anxiety. I'm here now, at the place I've decided to die. The sensation feels nostalgic, like walking up to a dangerous crush to ask for a date. It's scary. I know it's probably a really bad idea, but I want to even if I don't. Romanticizing death is idiotic to the nth degree, yet here I am, doing it.

"You have to wait for sunset."

The rational part of my brain tries to trick me into living. First, I'll wait till sunset, then I won't be able to miss seeing the tide to come in. By then, there'll be no escape. I've pinned you down, rationality. It's check before checkmate.

So, I'll wait, wait while I stare out to sea and thumb the thin piece of film, light sensitive plastic weaved with my happiest memory. It's a photo of the only people I like well enough to die with their dumb faces on me. I've already started to sneak glances. Not that the photo will change of course, but I feel like memorizing it. Whitley's looking utterly embarrassed with rainbow flags painted on his face, Winter's idea to drag him off to his first Pride and break the boy of his shyness. Winter on the other hand actually looks somehow more confident with her own light blue, pink, and white stripes. Despite my natural detachment, and the fact that pink, purple, and blue stripes all look abhorrent on my cheeks, I'm smiling with them. Tunneling through time, it makes me smile again. I worry I'll ruin Oregon for them, if they ever decide to come, maybe to pick up my body.

Denying the depression spiral coming, I put the photo away. I hope my siblings don't hate me for this. Parents could, but not them. Guess that really doesn't matter, I won't have to see it. It's just me, the chickweed, and a lot of angry water.

But then again, my mother always said no girl is an island. What's life without outside intrusion, besides easier? While I focus on steadying my breath, my eye catches a red Ford truck parked in the distance by my Bug.

"Shit," I whisper to the wind.

"Yo!" it calls back.

Or at least, a girl does. She shouts it over the ocean torrent of wind and water. The owner of the truck, I presume. A half a hair taller than me, looks nineteen, maybe twenty. She's got black hair tied in the back too, but highlighted red blue. She's dressed for the weather in a hoodie that matches her Ford and she wears jeans that look more ripped from climbing sharp rocks than by factory workers. She's waving as she walks down the thin black stone path, passed the sea anemones, the cracks and the pitfalls, right up to the half-egg.

Please, no.

My island, the width of four of me, now seats two.

"Shocker to find someone else on my spot. No one ever comes up here anymore." By the time she's climbed to the top she's right up to me with her hand out. Her fingernails are trimmed for climbing. "My name's Ruby."

"Yeah," I reply. "I'm Weiss."

"Your accent, I like it. Where you from?" Ruby continues, plopping right by the flower patch.

"Berlin." I don't want to talk to her, but I shouldn't tell her to piss off either. Can't exactly be a bitch for my last act of human interaction before judgement.

"Weiss from Berlin, nice. I hope you're loving Oregon. I'm a native myself, live on the other side of the bridge up in Newport, if you've ever been. I'm actually late." The light of her phone flickers with the time as she clicks her tongue. "High tide's coming, you know that, right?"

"Tide charts are the first thing they give every tourist." My timing always impeccable. "But no, I've never been."

"You need to change that. We've got our own Golden Gate right here."

Is it popular for suicide tourism, too? I take that intrusive thought and shove it right the hell down where it belongs. "It's not my focus. I really only came here to climb Seal Rock. My goal for the trip is complete." Half true.

"Seal Rock's kind of bottom tier of all the cool stuff we've got. I mean, I love it, but you can legit go dune surfing here. Bet you didn't even know we had desert dunes." She's got such a proud smirk, I swear she thinks she shaped the sands with her very hands. "Want some fruit?"

"Hmm?"

She slaps the ground next to her where a messenger bag's flipped open for all to see. I can see a sketchbook, pens, papers, five Cuties, and a tiny case of strawberries.

"The climb always leaves me starving. The Cuties are free, but the strawberries will require negotiation." She chuckles at her own joke. That makes me do the same. "Might be a little hard; you didn't seem to bring much with you."

I still wanted her to leave, but in life, never reject Cuties.

"True, didn't bring a thing. It's just me and my empty pockets." I take a seat beside her. The ground isn't as hard as I thought, some proper soil up here with us.

Ruby chuckles as she hands me the tiny orange. "Be honest, did you lock your stuff in your car?"

"No. Keys are sitting on the windshield, actually." I'm careless as I thumb the peel of the fruit. I break the skin before I realize she's staring at me confused.

"What if someone steals it?"

"It's a shitty rental anyways." I awkwardly glare at my fingers, thumbing the abrasive chips at the edges of my nails, most made especially visible by the light blue polish coating them. It's not surprising given my climb up the pimpled surface of black rock. I feel the tips out of habit, looking for something wrong whenever eyes are on me too long.

"Well, what's life without some totally unnecessary danger." She excuses me and I worry if maybe, through whatever signals I'm sending, she knows exactly why I'm here. Suddenly I have very little to say to her.

"Hey, sunset."

I look up from my nails at her warning and see the ball of fire I've delayed the inevitable for. Its light breaks through the cloud layer, gold starting to spread across the waters where it did not churn a milk white. Despite the colossal problem, complete with her red highlights, I now have a cause for my delay. I'm thankful for it, really is beautiful.

We spend the next few minutes just eating. Ruby occasionally says something while I chew on the cutie slices I peel off. Sometimes I respond, usually I don't. The sea turns completely gold, then amber, now finally a dark red as the sun begins to vanish again. The water level's rise and Ruby with it.

"High tide's coming in."

"Yep."

"You gonna just hang out here all night?" She manages to sound cheery, but I feel the barrel of a loaded question against my head. Naturally, I turn towards deflection.

"Technically, it's only six hours between tides."

She laughs. "I don't know if you'll last six hours. Wind gets way worse at night."

"You underestimate me." I don't intend to get blown off the world when I can jump.

"In my professional opinion, your pea coat might just achieve flight with you still on board."

I got to admit, the image of me being dragged off like a kite makes me smile.

"I'll have you know, I'm quite the majestic bird." I make her laugh again. Despite or because of that, I notice she still hasn't left. "I'm guessing you're going, then?" Not a bad vignette. I admit I enjoyed her company. I hope she misses the news when I wash up, if I ever do. I don't want this stranger feeling responsible.

After all, she gave me cuties.

"Yeah, not safe to wait much longer." She looks at me and I realize I have no idea what she wants. Me not to do it? Does she even know? Her silver eyes tell me not a damn thing. "Weiss, when's your flight back home?"

"I haven't settled on a date." I can't exactly tell her there isn't one.

"I'm off work early on Wednesday and your Oregon cultural education's totally unfinished. If you stick around, I can do my citizen's duty and show you way cooler spots." Ruby's smile is awkwardly wide, genuine. The kind of smile that begets other smiles by force.

"Sure, I guess." I want to bite my tongue off as the rational part of my brain hosts a damn mutiny, but no, even I can't go out that way. I've given myself an obligation. I can hear some small animal part of me that wants to survive this very pretty hellscape called existence, laughing right back at me.

"Cool, give me your number if you're sticking around."

Relax. I can feel an intrusive thought bubble up, Thursdays just as swell a date.

"542-272-4466, warning though, it is a temp."

***Howdy! This has been in the works for a while and while my life has been hell I was able to work on this a ton in my advanced fiction class, hope you like the first chapter. I can't promise I'll get to more quickly though I intend to 100% This story has a lot to deal with depression, not knowing what to do in life, being lost, and learning to be okay with all of it cause trust me its not going away. This stories very Welcome to the NHK inspired if that gets you any idea. Weiss chapters will be in first person Ruby in third for thematic reasons and I hope you enjoy!

This chapters shorter then my usual ones, but I feel right about it. Hope it's alright. Also this is finals week don't expect any other fics till next week. Got this semester has been hell.

Also huge thanks to LazyKaze, Tigerlilly and every other writer who helped make this first chapter pretty nailed down.