It's a bitter sweet life to be had here in paradise. The same sand that tickles the feet of the tourists had long since grown course on my sole. The morning sun had taken to waking me hatefully, forcing me into another day of trying...trying to find something. Something that I hadn't carried with me in a long time.

It's spring break again, complete with the typical lost souls that tilt the bottle trying to drink up salvation in the dredges and swallow eternity in a week. I know all about them; I used to be one of them. I found out that even paradise falls short. The hole in my heart that gnawed at me like a cancer couldn't be filled by anything this world had to offer, and wasn't it funny that I had all that to offer others anyway. It was false advertising to the extreme. Every time that I supplied a little taste of Heaven in a plastic baggie to the tourists I had to fake the smile. I had to brighten my eyes to show this false little sense of anticipation by proxy for them. "Man, you're gonna love this!" It had gotten so old.

It was different now, way different. I've overstepped my bounds on this one. God, how I had tried to hide my horror, my revulsion at myself when I looked down at that kid on the beach. Dead. O.D.'ed, dead as hell, and I was the one to blame. I tried not to let Lolita see my reaction. My real reaction. I'd killed this kid by shoving Heaven down his throat, my Heaven, the Heaven that I thought everybody wanted. Just like those damn Bible-thumpers had killed every ounce of faith left in me by shoving their Heaven down my throat. The only difference was that I had survived their forced salvation, but this kid...he didn't make it through mine.

And this asshole! What the hell was he doing praying for this kid? What good is that going to do? I say something smart-assed about "tough luck" or something. I can't even hear myself blabber; my head's full of wax, and my pulse is throbbing in my ears like those drums the folks from Trinidad play.

I'm barely aware of the people around me unless I force myself to pay attention. Over there's Sara, but I don't really want to talk to her now. I need to get out of here; there's too many people. Too many people that know me, and too many people that are starting to put two and two together. I ask this Al guy to have a drink later at the bar later (did he just say yes or no?), and hurry the hell on, ditching Lolita as politely as I can. I need a quiet place to relax. I need to think this through. Does anybody else ever get like this?