Sam
I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam
And no one in his right mind would make my home his home
Sam had begun to found that in the morning, just before the sun rose, the chilly and clear costal air helped to clear his mind. The sickness had almost become the new normal, the days spreading out before him with certainty that they would be just as lost, foggy and difficult to understand, his thirst growing more with each passing night and his desire to run into the sea yet also shy away from it blooming, the contradiction mattering less and less as time went on.
Of course, he was also deaf; the roar of the sea was missing, the crash of waves on the shore, the birds above. All gone, replaced with a complete silence. Was it permanent? He didn't know, but he'd taken to carrying the Never Notebook with him and the Self-writing Quill, so he could quickly get his thoughts down and shared. Often they were disjointed, badly spelt and unfinished, but that was the case for the ones in his head too.
There were good and bad days, though: some days he could feel almost normal, only tired and unable to complete difficult tasks (he had not made a single map since the illness had begun), but some days he could struggle to get out of bed, his thoughts so muddled and fear so overwhelming he couldn't make his limbs move. For the moment, it was a good day, and the walk was helping him to feel like he might even have some hope of getting better.
----- Some time later -----
He was stumbling in no direction in particular, blood lining his front and dripping off his chin, a dazed look in his eyes. The drink had put him into a stupor, thirst satisfied but all other senses dulled, the beach like a grey fog; he had not thought to hide James' body, which would be easy to find at the end of the bloody trail dripping from his feet.
Of course, he was also deaf; the roar of the sea was missing, the crash of waves on the shore, the birds above. All gone, replaced with a complete silence. Was it permanent? He didn't know, but he'd taken to carrying the Never Notebook with him and the Self-writing Quill, so he could quickly get his thoughts down and shared. Often they were disjointed, badly spelt and unfinished, but that was the case for the ones in his head too.
There were good and bad days, though: some days he could feel almost normal, only tired and unable to complete difficult tasks (he had not made a single map since the illness had begun), but some days he could struggle to get out of bed, his thoughts so muddled and fear so overwhelming he couldn't make his limbs move. For the moment, it was a good day, and the walk was helping him to feel like he might even have some hope of getting better.
----- Some time later -----
He was stumbling in no direction in particular, blood lining his front and dripping off his chin, a dazed look in his eyes. The drink had put him into a stupor, thirst satisfied but all other senses dulled, the beach like a grey fog; he had not thought to hide James' body, which would be easy to find at the end of the bloody trail dripping from his feet.
When I try to open up to you I get completely lost
Houses swallowed by the earth, windows thick with frost
