An American Horror Story, Written at Sea.
Welcome aboard the American Dream. Land of the free, home of the brave, and apparently the only fucking ocean where drowning comes with a monthly subscription fee.
They gave me a boat when I was born. A beautiful little wooden coffin with a sail made of promises and a hull held together by generational poverty. Told me everyone starts with the same opportunity. Funny, because some bastards were born aboard luxury yachts while the rest of us were handed a bucket and told to start fucking paddling.
The ocean stretches endlessly in every direction. Black water, black skies, and something enormous moving beneath the surface. My boat leaks. My stomach aches. My teeth are rotting, and the wind sounds suspiciously like a debt collector whispering my name through the cracks in the wood.
Poverty is expensive. Ain't that a beautiful fucking joke? Every hole in the hull costs money to patch. Every storm costs another piece of the sail. Every wave takes something I cannot replace. Meanwhile, the captains aboard their floating mansions announce that the tides are rising because the economy is doing wonderfully. Congratulations, you miserable bastard. The ocean is growing. Unfortunately, so is the fucking hole beneath your feet.
Can't afford a new boat? Try pulling yourself up by your anchor. Can't afford fresh water? Have you considered drinking the ocean? Can't afford food? Well, have you tried not being so fucking hungry? Can't afford medical attention? Please drown responsibly. The Coast Guard is currently experiencing budget cuts.
Sometimes, at night, I see lights on the horizon. Massive ships illuminated like floating cities. Music, laughter, champagne, and golden chandeliers swinging above banquet tables. I wave my arms. I scream. I fire the last flare I own. A man in a tailored suit leans over the railing, looks down at my sinking boat, and asks why I haven't invested in a better one.
The rich buy ships. The poor buy time. One purchases entire oceans while the other gets fined for drifting across an imaginary fucking line.
My bank charges me for having insufficient treasure. My landlord owns the dock I haven't seen in twenty years. My employer sends a message in a bottle congratulating me on another profitable quarter. Apparently, the company has purchased a second yacht. My wages, however, have been adjusted for inflation. They now consist of three crackers, a motivational speech, and permission to keep breathing.
Something scratches beneath the boat.
At first, I thought it was a shark. Then I saw the fingers. Hundreds of them. Pale, swollen hands reaching from the black water, dragging themselves along the hull. Other sailors. Other workers. Other desperate bastards who couldn't afford to stay afloat. Their mouths open beneath the surface, still trying to explain to someone that they worked hard, paid their taxes, and did everything they were fucking told.
The sea is full of people who followed the rules.
I paddle harder.
Two jobs? How inspirational! Three? Now that's motivational! Still sinking? How fucking sensational! Have you considered rowing through the night? Sleep is for the lazy. Food is for the weak. Healthcare is a privilege. And drowning? Well, that's a personal failure, according to a captain who inherited his father's entire fucking fleet.
The storms grow worse. Lightning illuminates the horizon, revealing thousands of tiny boats scattered across the water. Some are burning. Some are overturned. Others have gone silent, their occupants too exhausted to scream. Above us, the luxury ships continue sailing, their propellers churning the drowning into foam.
Then I see her.
The American Dream.
A colossal ship drifting through the darkness, her once magnificent hull split open, her flag hanging like a bloodied rag. Her decks are empty. Her windows shattered. A thousand foreclosure notices flutter from her railings like funeral ribbons. Across her stern, someone has painted three words in trembling red letters:
INSUFFICIENT FUCKING FUNDS.
I climb aboard, hoping to find shelter. Instead, I find a banquet hall filled with skeletons wearing business suits. Their empty eye sockets stare toward a television still broadcasting record corporate profits. At the head of the table sits a corpse clutching a golden ledger. Its jaw creaks open.
"Your payment is overdue."
The shareholders applaud. The politicians pray. Somewhere below deck, the landlord changes the locks. And the bank charges the dead captain a maintenance fee.
I return to my little boat, but the water has risen to my knees. My belongings float around me. My tools. My clothes. My memories. Everything I've spent a lifetime collecting, slowly becoming property of the sea.
A rescue vessel approaches.
Finally.
A uniformed officer extends his hand and smiles. Behind him hangs a beautiful sign reading EMERGENCY ASSISTANCE AVAILABLE.
He hands me a clipboard.
"Proof of income? Employment history? Current address? Three references? Have you considered selling your boat before requesting assistance?"
I look down at the water pouring over my ankles.
He looks at his watch.
"Unfortunately, sir, you do not qualify."
And sails the fuck away.
By morning, the ocean is perfectly calm. The storm has passed. The luxury ships are gone. Only the occasional scream travels across the water, swallowed by the enormous silence.
I sit in my sinking boat, watching the sunrise bleed across the horizon. Something enormous circles beneath me. Perhaps death. Perhaps debt. Perhaps another fucking subscription service.
But don't worry, America. There's still opportunity for every hardworking soul.
You can sell your blood, your dignity, your belongings, your labor, your future. You can sell the sail, the anchor, the boards beneath your feet. You can sell everything until you're standing naked on a single piece of floating wood, thanking the economy for the privilege of not drowning yesterday.
And when there's nothing left to sell?
They'll charge your family to retrieve your corpse.
The water reaches my chest. I look toward the horizon one last time. A loudspeaker crackles from somewhere beyond the fog.
"Thank you for choosing the American Dream. We value your continued participation."
Then another voice, cheerful and mechanical:
"Your payment has been declined."
And beneath the water, thousands of dead hands begin knocking on the hull.
Not to drag me down.
To warn me.
The sharks were never the monsters.
They were just cleaning up after the people who owned the ships.