After a heart-to-heart conversation at the bottom of the night ocean, a guy finds a new purpose in life. And along this path, unusual people attract each other. Together they figure out her and his family circumstances. This entire situation strongly influences them as well.

“What brings you here?” the Drowned Man next to me takes a drag from a wet, half-smoked cigarette.
“By accident,” I admit with an inflection, showing my lifelong awkwardness.
“We’re all here by accident,” he drawls thoughtfully, staring into the utter blackness of the water mass. Even the clear water won’t help you see sunken ships at night.
“Seriously. I was walking, thinking about my own stuff, slipped, stumbled, went over the railing, and hit my head. And now we’re neighbors on the bottom,” I recount, unable to suppress a smile.
“Yeah, luck is written all over your face,” the gloomy dead man smiles, ironically watching a small fish nibble at my broken forehead.
“It’s always like that for me. Nothing surprises me anymore. Regular people just make mistakes, but I commit every blunder professionally and with enviable regularity,” I say with proud self-irony.
“Commendable,” the sarcasm from my interlocutor on the seabed lifts my spirits, despite the setting of this underwater graveyard strewn with trash.
“Half-empty or half-full?” I notice a chipped whiskey glass in the Drowned Man’s hand.
“Looks like half-undrunk,” he finishes the remainder with a smirk, gazing wistfully to the side. He’s disappointed not to taste the familiar whiskey flavor.
“Came straight from the bar?” I draw a logical conclusion, looking at the cigarette, the glass, and the evening suit—decent, but not for a restaurant.
“I was brought here,” he calmly and proudly takes another drag of the wet smoke.
“Along with the glass?” I conceal my smile so as not to offend him.
“Meet Stan,” he brings the chipped whiskey glass closer to me.
“Pleased to meet you, Stan,” I respectfully address the glass, playing along with my companion’s mood. “Are you two close?” I ask seriously.
“My last friend from the surface,” he looks up sorrowfully through the cloudy glass.
“You share a lot of history from your life?” I gather from his tone.
“For the last few years, Stan was the only one next to me,” he speaks with respect about his faithful glass friend.
“And he kept you company until the final minute?” I ask, realizing respectfully.
“Of course!” the Drowned Man takes a large gulp of whiskey diluted with seawater, paying tribute and respect to his close friend.
“How did you defend your friend?” I point to the chip. “You didn’t let it break completely.”
“Stan defended me!” he proudly raises the glass, looking through the glass at the rare lights of the surface, dimly penetrating the water’s depths.
“Stan got into a fight?” I bring my companion’s thoughts back to the seabed. It’s lonely to cool off in the cold water alone.
“He sure did!” my neighbor exclaims admiringly. “Brave little guy. When they threw me face-first onto the bar, right in my hand, he chipped off a piece of himself and threw it into the eye of one of our attackers. There was a lot of blood!” he swallows the salty whiskey with a satisfied smile. He closes his eyes, recalling the genuine taste.
“Courageous fellows,” I honestly acknowledge the guys’ combat merits. Not everyone dares to fight the bar counter face-on with a little assistance. “How did it all start?”
“Remember when panic was rising in the crowds about another end of the world?” the Drowned Man reminds me seriously.
“I remember. Happens every time. People believe,” the memory of the crowds’ agitation at every turn, anticipating the end of everything, comes back to life.
“It always follows the script,” he takes a drag from the wet cigarette, tossing the butt into the vast underwater trash can. “First the news, then the nerves, the anxiety grew. The crowd resigned itself to the inevitable wait. And then it started. Brazen, indiscriminate robbery. Violence, good girls disgraced—it’s a pity. A wave of loans more like a tsunami. An increase in the already rampant drinking. Addicts upped their doses; the euphoric ranks visibly swelled. Mass layoffs of entire departments without explanation. Mass suicides, mostly the youth. New cults spread like an infection across the country, contaminating the sound judgment of the populace,” he utters every word with disgust, staring into the darkness of the deep sea.
“All of that always was, is, and will be,” I mentally repeat what I’ve heard, hopefully doubting his grim conclusion.
“Exactly. Just look at how many times the figures spike during critical moments. And panic amplifies the consequences severalfold. Before you know it, the planet will be engulfed by a real end of the world,” he concludes submissively in the gloom of the seabed.
“Hold on. So what does the end of the world have to do with the bar fight involving Stan?” I return to our topic. My companion’s backstory is more interesting.
“For others, the latest apocalypse was nothing more than a mass hysteria. But for me, the real end of the world arrived,” he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. He lights one, gazing into the abyss. “Everyone was afraid of losing cars, houses, valuables. I was only afraid of losing one person. I lost two,” he breaks a new cigarette and throws it into the darkness.
“Who?” I gently draw the pain out of the sorrowful Drowned Man.
“I was terribly worried about my wife’s mental state. She became too unbalanced after the rumors of the end of the world. Then it turned out her hormones were raging during the pregnancy. You understand, the news came too late. My wife brought about the end of the world for herself and our unborn daughter. My world vanished along with my daughter’s blood soaking into the solid ground. Don’t think,” he turns to me, agitated. “I’m not a suicide. The end of the world wouldn’t make me do that. Too soon. I’m not ready to see my daughter yet. I don’t know what to say when we meet. And I have no desire to see my wife at all.”
“So, you’re also here by accident?”
“I can’t say that,” he pulls out another cigarette. He takes a drag without lighting it. “It’s all the consequence of loss. Four years ago. By the way, my daughter is four years old now. I don’t even know what you get four-year-old girls.”
“Don’t worry, a good present will turn up,” I reassure him, scanning the seabed for a worthy gift. There’s nothing like that here.
“It’ll turn up,” the Drowned Man agrees hopelessly, with a final shred of hope. He surveys the black sand. “Four years ago, Stan came into my life and brought his older brother, Scott, to visit. Large, liter-sized one. And if that wasn’t enough, I’d go for his twin brother at the store, with all the strength I had left. Sometimes I didn’t make it. Sometimes I’d wander into a smoky bar. Sometimes I’d get punched in the face and sleep outside. Or I’d just lie down on the pavement to sleep, unable to find the strength to walk any further. I’m not just talking about the way home.”
“Didn’t the police bother you?” the direct question sounds softer underwater. Especially addressed to a dead man by another dead man.
“Who’d bother me?” he smirks, remembering. “The locals knew. Passersby avoided me. And the police were all my own. They were. We served together. My service ended sooner.”
“You were a policeman?” I seize upon the news.
“I said, we served together. In the army,” the Drowned Man is forced to clarify. “Then they all became local police officers, and I became a married man. And almost a father. I was planning to go into law enforcement too. With the loss of my family, all my strength and desire left me. I became a regular guest of the green valley where Stan and Scott live. It’s amazing I lived with their company for so long,” he takes a sip, tipping the chipped glass.
“So you’re here after just another regular bar fight?” I clarify, trying to understand.
“Another? Yes. Regular? No. I had to earn money for my conversations with Scott and Stan. I hired myself out as an assistant to a certain person. The deeds were darker than water,” he points to the black sea wall in front of us. “One thing led to another, it spiraled. I went to the bar to exchange information. As you see, the information was a little weak, but my head is strong,” he knocks his fist against his forehead, proving the strength of his skull. “Just a few scrapes, that’s all.”
“You got lucky with your head,” I envy him slightly, rubbing my own frequent bumps from the constant pitfalls in my path. I can never seem to bypass them.
“I wouldn’t call it luck. Rather, I’m just a weirdo,” my companion muses.
“I’m a weirdo like that too. Lucky weirdo,” I smile, realizing it.
“You couldn’t put it better,” he supports our toast with a smile, raising the glass. He drinks it in one gulp, grimacing out of habit. “Wait,” he looks at me seriously, taking a drag. He exhales invisible smoke. “You were just passing by, slipped, and flipped over the railing?” he asks about my story with interest.
“That’s exactly right,” I confirm the absurdity of my unexpected death. “I was walking along the edge of the pier, slipped on something red, slippery, and sticky. I staggered, and then physics did its job. And I’m here,” I run my cold hand through the dark water.
“I’m sorry, friend,” he turns to me, agitated. “You slipped on my blood. A lot of it flowed out of me back then,” he opens his jacket, showing three bullet wounds in the chest area.
“It’s nothing. I bear no ill will,” I soothe him with a smile and the truth. “It’s good here, peaceful. And talking to you is interesting. It’s not your fault.”
“How is it not!” the Drowned Man protests, drinking another glass of salty whiskey. “My blood. You slipped, fell, hit your head, and died. So, you died because of my blood!” I must admit, the logic is sound.
“There’s something to that,” I ponder what I’ve heard with a smile. “But didn’t it seem a little strange to you that I was wandering around a deserted pier at two in the morning?”
“Yes, a little strange,” the dead man agrees. “What did a weirdo need at two in the morning in a place forgotten by everyone? Couldn’t you live a quiet life?”
“Let’s start with the fact that a weirdo’s life is never quiet,” I recall a series of incidents from my difficult fate with a smile.
“I agree,” he laughs, remembering his own incidents.
“And the place is far from forgotten by everyone. They brought you here,” I offer a weighty argument.
“I agree,” he seriously concurs. “Why you, specifically here, at two in the morning?” the circumstances give no rest to the cooled body with the hot mind.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” I confess to my uncontrollable foolishness. “I often do that. Knowing my predictable Luck, I don’t resist, but obediently submit. This time it brought me here. Now I know—to talk with you,” I voice the purpose of my nocturnal walk.
“Why would you need my problems?” my companion wonders.
“Not me. My Luck always tosses up stories. I admit, it has brought me to such a conversation in such an unusual place for the first time,” I give credit to the imagination of my guiding force.
“What good is our conversation to you?” he takes a deep drag, realizing the situation.
“I don’t know what my Luck wants, but I feel good right now. It’s pleasant to relax, sitting on the bottom, leaning against the old pier, talking with a friend in a similar situation.”
“Thank you for the compliment to my company,” he seriously nods, raising his glass as a sign of respect and recognition.
“Rather, I should thank you for the company and the conversation. It’s a rarity in my life. I haven’t had many good conversationalists,” I recall my life sadly.
“And that’s good,” he drinks the sea whiskey with disappointment. “Have you ever wondered who your Luck is?” he asks mysteriously, looking intently into my eyes.
“In what sense?” Such a thought had never occurred to my troubled head before.
“Something pushes you into all sorts of adventures. The question is, what exactly does this force represent? God, the Devil, Fate, Chance, Stupidity, Despair?”
“Stop listing them,” I answer unexpectedly sharply. “I’m sorry. I’ve never noticed anything like that about myself.”
“It’s nothing, fair enough,” the dead man answers without offense. “Places like this change people,” he gestures with the glass to describe our underwater interior.
“I don’t know. Maybe I just have this kind of Luck. And I’m just a weirdo. That’s my destiny,” I smile resignedly, accepting my difficult lot.
“Perhaps,” my companion bursts out laughing. Without thinking, I catch his laughter on the bottom of the night sea, filling the silent space. “I think they’ve come for me,” the dead man raises his head toward the black rectangle of light above us. A boat propeller disturbs the night silence.
“Divers, you think?” I voice my first thought.
“And you think fishermen came to catch Drowned Men?” my neighbor smirks.
“Tell me your name!” I hurry to ask over the sound of the divers submerging.
“Stanley Jacobs. Did you think Stan and Scott were accidentally my friends?” he raises the glass, drinking the last sip of salty whiskey on the night seabed in my company. “Look, they’ve spotted you too,” he points to the divers’ hand signals.
“See you around!” I shout after Stanley as he ascends.
“As it happens,” the Drowned Man’s arms are tossed involuntarily in the underwater current. The glass falls from his hand, resting on the black sandy bottom with the chip facing up. A waterlogged cigarette drops nearby. A second pair of divers lifts me. I silently leave the place of the pleasant nocturnal conversation. I remember Stanley Jacobs with his friends Stan and Scott. I don’t want to leave here. What’s the point of sitting in the dark without a good conversationalist who illuminated such a gloomy place with his presence? I wonder if my Luck will bring us together again? Or was it a one-time, generous gift of fate? We’ll see. I’m not in a position to make plans or hope for anything in the future right now.

“Where to with this one?” the Sergeant asks, pointing to Stanley Jacobs’ body.
“Take him to the morgue. Let him warm up. It’s freezing here,” he mutters, pulling his light jacket tighter. He’s dressed inappropriately for the weather.
“And what about this one?” a young policeman looks at me from behind the doctors.
“He’s alive for now,” the doctor replies uncertainly, looking at the monitor showing a faint pulse.
“It's strange that he survived at all,” the Sergeant smirks.
“He’s unlikely to pull through,” the officer in charge decides calmly, flicking his cigarette butt into the sea. “He should have gone to the morgue with our Stanley a long time ago. He’s just wasting the medics’ time.”
“Look!” the Sergeant notices a strong pulse surge on the monitor. I open my eyes through the pain and the cold.
“He’ll live,” the resuscitator concludes wearily.
“Luck is on your side today,” the senior policeman looks at me with slight envy. “Take him to the hospital before he dies of the deadly cold!” he orders on his way to his car.
“Grab him!” the medics load my motionless body into the ambulance. We speed off to save the life that remains, the siren wailing.
“Do you think he’ll stay?” the young nurse consults with the older doctor.
“He’s already staying,” the experienced resuscitator answers confidently. “Now we won’t let him go. He’s our guy. Strong. A real fighter for life. Who knows, he might come to and ask you to marry him!” he winks at the girl, who is looking into my eyes with interest, then laughs.
“What are you saying! I just hope he stays normal after this,” she muses aloud.
“A normal person wouldn’t have survived this!” the experienced doctor states seriously. “It’s the first case in my memory. He was in the icy water for a long time. Plus, a traumatic brain injury,” he uses his thumb to push the skin aside, exposing the wound on my forehead. “Lucky the cold water stopped the bleeding. And generally, froze him until we arrived.”
“And who reported the drowned men?” the girl asks, looking closely at the doctor. For a second, she glances at the radio in the driver’s cabin.
“An unknown woman called the police. She said four big men dragged a fifth onto the pier. They threw him into the sea like a sack. They looked around and left. She ran to report it right away. She didn’t see this one,” the doctor thinks I cannot hear or understand.
“And what was that woman doing at night on the abandoned pier?” the girl ponders.
“She probably came to drown herself too,” the doctor smiles. “She sees that the line has moved on. The spot’s taken. She changed her mind. She ran to report a violator of the Drowned Man’s peace. And the second one went swimming without waiting his turn,” he looks at me with reproach.
“Stop joking about things like this!” the girl objects, glaring angrily at the doctor. “He’s alive,” she shifts her caring gaze to me. “He might hear you and get upset. Don’t worry, we’ve revived you. We’ll warm you up. We’ll get you back on your feet,” she gently strokes my cold hand. I don’t feel the touch, but I feel the warmth in my soul. “Everything will be alright,” she reassures me with a tender voice.
“See, you’ll definitely fall in love, and you’ll get married,” the doctor repeats the joke mockingly. The girl blushes silently.
“Are we much further?” the nurse shouts to the driver, glancing at the road.
“What’s the rush?” the relaxed driver doesn’t turn around. “Hasn’t he died yet?”
“If you crawl like this, we’ll all die here. Of old age. Step on it! I need to make it in time for breakfast,” the doctor glances at his watch.
“Buckle up, we’re taking off!” the driver speeds up noticeably. For a second, it feels like I’m about to fly off the gurney. If that happens, I definitely won’t survive until morning. I don’t know if I want to survive.

      My Luck is strange. It tries to kill me, then it saves me. It puts me in the hospital. It ties me down with restraints. I wonder what it wants from me. Maybe it’s hinting, nudging me. I’m lucky to have it. People complain about the monotony of life, but I’d like to live one single day normally. It was so peaceful on the floor of the night sea, and now the machine is beating against my brain with pulses. I wish I could turn it off. It’s clear enough that I’m alive. I’ve become irritable. Apparently, the head trauma had an effect. I try to touch my forehead, but they’ve left me no movement. That’s why they secured me—so I wouldn’t turn anything off or take off the bandage. The wound is itchy, but there’s no one to scratch it.
“How are you doing?” the familiar girl approaches, looking at the monitor, my forehead, and straight into my eyes.
“Everything’s fine,” I reply uncertainly. My body is constrained; I don’t know if my limbs are working.
“I told you everything would be fine,” the nurse rejoices, as if for a personal patient. “Don’t worry, it’s a temporary measure,” she gently rubs the strap on my wrist.
“Could you at least free my hands?” I ask in a soft voice, so as not to scare the young, sensitive girl.
“If you promise not to get up, not to touch the bandage, and not to harm yourself or others,” she states the conditions seriously.
“I promise,” I assure her as seriously as possible. I’m ready to lie still just to have the restraints removed. The feeling of being confined turns my whole insides over.
“Let’s see here,” she examines the strap buckle closely. “These are new. You’re the first visitor to this room. Everything’s new, even the bed. They consider you special,” she unbuckles the tight strap on my left hand with a slight strain. “They say you survived by a miracle. Rare luck.” She frees one hand.
“Yes, rare,” I agree with irony. “That’s the kind of weirdo I am.” It’s good that the girl is too preoccupied with unbuckling my second hand. She doesn’t notice how intently I’m studying her. You couldn’t imagine a prettier nurse. I enjoy gazing at her.
“That’s it!” the pleasant-looking girl reports triumphantly, having conquered the new technology.
“You have no idea how grateful I am for the freedom,” I can now feel at least partial freedom of movement, rubbing my wrists.
“The main thing is to remember the promise you made!” she reminds me of our agreement seriously. It’s good that she reminded me.
“I remember, of course!” I assure her, calming her down. “Thank you for saving me,” I thank her not so much for returning me to life as for the chance to talk to her.
“The restraints wouldn’t have killed you,” she blushes with a smile.
“Thank you for pulling me out of the sea and bringing me back to consciousness,” I clarify, so she understands.
“Oh, that,” the nurse says more seriously. “It’s not my merit. The divers pulled you out, the doctor saved you. And I just happened to be there. A friend asked me to cover her shift. I covered it.”
“Maybe that’s why I survived. Because you were right next to me,” I recall seriously.
“I had absolutely nothing to do with it,” the girl smiles. “It’s all your luck. You’re destined for a long life.”
“What if you are my Luck?” I suggest seriously, looking into the young nurse’s eyes.
“You’re having a romantic episode from the painkillers,” she looks at the monitor shyly. “You should sleep now. And I’ll tell the doctor that everything is fine with you. There’s no need to worry. Then he’ll come by later.”
“Thank you for your kind care,” I thank her, hoping to see her again.
“It’s my job,” she answers more seriously, recovering from her girlish softness. “Sleep. The staff will come to you during the day,” she adjusts the IV drip and leaves.
“Thank you,” I call out to the slender figure in the white coat. I never would have thought I’d be lying in a hospital bed with such pleasure. No bed or new monitor can replace talking with a nice person. Especially when a weirdo like me meets a truly sweet girl. She told me to sleep. I don’t want to. I watch the sunrise in the hospital window. I recall the gloomy seabed, Stan, and the sweet nurse. She asked me to sleep. I will sleep!

I am not urging anyone to do anything.

All events and characters are fictional.

Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

I sincerely apologize if I have offended anyone.

Highly Recommended Age: 18+

The author bears no responsibility for the reader's perception of the book.