The Exception

If it wasn’t for the name, nobody would care about Elm Street Cemetery. Whenever people hear the word “Elm” to describe an address, they get excited as if it’s some top-secret connection to “Nightmare on Elm Street” that they have discovered. Not to rain on their parade, but Wes Craven didn’t create the name. My pretentiousness aside, the site was nothing special. It was home to the bones of, to be blunt, nobodies. I know this seems rude and out of touch, however, the bodies buried belong to a group of dumbass fraternity boys who got themselves killed in the ocean next to Elm. Yes, I know, how tragic. However, you would think that the genius brothers of Theta Chi would know better than to get drunk and sail on a raft they bought from Ebay.  

The whole cemetery is home to these seventeen boys. Why they get the full space dedicated to them, I don’t know, but that’s all it is. It’s honestly embarrassing; we live next to the damn ocean, but all people care to visit is the historic site of the Theta Chi Klutzes. The ocean itself is beautiful, just as any ocean is. But it’s not the kind of shimmery blue that people would take photos of and show to others to prove that they’re well-traveled. It’s the kind of dark, inky blue that makes you think, “Huh, something feels off about this”, but then you rationalize that you’re being silly and instead decide to find it beautiful, because admiring the water is much easier than fearing the water. 

Because we're only really known for one spot, the water doesn’t get many visitors. I’ve lived off of Elm for ages and have never grown tired of its oceanside. I can’t think of a day where I haven’t been in the water. When most people visit, they take a quick dip and then quickly realize just how cold it is, despite believing they would be different from the rest and enjoy the frigid temperature. Everyone thinks that they will be the person to solve a riddle the quickest, or drive drunk without flaws, or survive Elm’s chilling waters. Everyone believes that they’re the exception, but they’re not. 

I saw proof of this a few years back. It was a windy October night and I was going for a little nightly swim. It was around 1:30 in the morning when this group of four or five teenagers found themselves on the beach. They seemed like smart kids, or at least they tried to seem smart. I remember looking over at one of their towels and seeing a stack of hardcover books that had these fancy embellishments to make them look vintage. I never understood that. After spending a total of 11 minutes completely enthralled in George Orwell’s 1984, the pseudo scholars busted out the smallest joint you’ve ever seen, because apparently now drinking is trashy but smoking is somehow classy. The violent coughs that followed each inhalation seemed to fill the whole beach, but they could not compete with the ocean’s waves.  

I lingered quietly, my body moving up and down with the current, as I kept a steady eye on the teens. I remember trying to make all of my limbs feel weightless, so I could float like the pieces of kelp that do a very good job at making people dash out of the water; in their defense, even I sometimes confuse the plants for jellyfish tentacles. I’m honestly envious of the ocean goers if they think that jellyfish are the biggest threat lurking here.  

“What the fuck is that?” 

My pondering is interrupted by the intense staring of the entire group, suddenly all on their feet. 

“Looks like one of those big ass inflatable pool toys” one of them says. 

“Is anyone on it?” replies another. 

A third voice chimes in, “That doesn’t look like an inflatable. Looks like an animal; like a whale or something.” 

“It’s not a fucking whale dumbass!” an instigating voice fires back. 

Whale Boy shouts back at The Instigator, “Whales live in the ocean-!” 

This was getting intense. I find it pretty humorous that humans are able to argue about the most unimportant topics. I involuntarily let out a noise that’s adjacent to a laugh. The arguing stops. The group’s movement stops. Even the wind seems to stop. 

The Instigator takes a few steps forward, the water meeting his ankles. The sloshing of the water grows louder. His friends break out of their trance and add to the growing noise, urging him to come back. They don’t think it’s funny. The desperate urging quickly turns to commanding yelling. But The Instigator doesn’t stop. He goes deeper into the water, straight for the source of the noise, walking as if he is invincible to whatever it may be, as if he is the exception. Like I said, everyone thinks they are the exception.  

The Instigator, now swimming instead of walking, takes his final stroke.  

He is now face to face with the source of the noise. 

And I am face to face with the Instigator.  

I wish I could say I was hurt by the look on his face once he saw me, but I was used to this. I’ve seen this look before. Most recently I’ve seen it on the seventeen brothers of the Theta Chi Klutzes buried at Elm.  

The Instigator widened his eyes in terror; I mimicked his gaze just to mess with him a little bit. Thinking back now, I kind of regret that. One thing I pride myself on is being fair with my prey; I shouldn’t patronize them, it’s not fair.  

I locked eyes with him for as long as I could. Feeding is necessary, but I try to delay it as long as I can. 

I’ll spare the details of what happened next.  

I’m aware that I mock humans and their ridiculous belief that they are special, that they’re the chosen one. But at this moment, as I heard the screams of the teenagers from the shore, I wish The Instigator was right. I wish he was the exception.