He was the golden boy once.
That’s what they called him. The one who’d “make it.” The one with the bright future, the easy charm, the endless potential. Sun-bleached hair, skin kissed by salt, board under his arm. A bright white grin as wide as the horizon.
Golden, yes.
Even then, his feet were clay. He just didn’t know how fast clay cracks when it gets wet.
The future didn’t come all at once. It crept.
First it was a degree—because everyone was getting one. Then a job—because everyone said it was a good one. A marriage—because everyone said she was perfect for him. A house. A dog. Kids. A second promotion. A third.
He was on the fast track.
Look at him go!
He told himself he was choosing. That these were steps forward, not downward.
With each step, something slipped around him.
Thin, at first. Barely noticeable. A soft coil at his ankle, warm and harmless. But every yes tightened it. Every nod. Every “You’re so lucky.”
The tentacles grew thick and leaden. By the time he noticed them, they were already wrapped to his waist. Heavy. Certain.
Inevitable, really.
He moved slower. Breathed shallower. Learned to smile with the weight on his chest and growing around his belly.
People clapped him on the back and told him he’d done well.
He didn’t argue.
How could he?
Some nights, after the house goes quiet, he sits in the kitchen with the light off and thinks about leaving.
Just… leaving.
Buying a board again. Moving somewhere cheap by the sea. He’s heard of people doing that—vanishing, cutting ties, becoming no one.
He tries to picture it. Tries to imagine standing on a beach with the sun on his back, board under his arm. Tries to imagine his feet light on the waxed board again, toes gripping, the water lifting him.
When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t see waves.
He sees the reasons why not.
He feels them. The tentacles of obligation.
Not just weight. Not just drag. They’re ties. Binding, not holding.
He can feel the pull if he even thinks of loosening them—an almost gentle reminder:
This is what you built. This is what you wanted. You don’t get to leave what you made.
They hum that phrase to him in a voice that isn’t quite his own.
Once, he tried.
He took a day off work. Drove to the beach. Rented a board.
The sea was there, right where he’d left it, as patient as ever. He waded in, paddled out. For a moment, he felt… almost right. Almost like he used to be.
When the first wave rose, perfect and clean, calling to him, he couldn’t rise.
The tentacles dragged, soft but absolute. His arms burned against their weight. He missed the swell. Missed the next.
Sat there, puffing and blowing the salt from his lips.
The water didn’t fight him.
The ties just pulled, inexorable, drawing him back to shore.
He didn’t resist.
He let them lead him, slow as a funeral march, back to the sand.
Back to the car.
Back home.
Sometimes, he dreams of excising them, cutting them away.
Even in the dreams, when he lifts the blade, they tighten around his wrists, his throat, whispering almost kindly:
We made you golden. We made you loved. You don’t get to leave us now.
He wakes with his hands clenched. His chest tight. The weight still there.
The golden boy with feet of clay, dragged back into the mud he agreed to live in.
Every morning, he ties the loops tighter himself. A Shelby-Pratt knot around his soul to match the noose around his neck.