Sometimes Survial is a Death Sentence

I rested my head upon the charred bones of the earth. The spray of the ocean against my tortured skin was a balm to my poor sunburned body. My clothes, little more than rags now, offered scant protection from the elements.

Hollow trenches that wound around like intestinal molds had become tide pools entrenched with all manner of horrid oceanic things that shared their fetid shallow water and rotted together in the heat. I imagined that no street or market anywhere could compete with that ancient, eldritch stench.

The sky was clear and blue, and yet ominously seemed to swallow the entirety of the world. No sign remained of the storm that had battered us relentlessly before abandoning us on this cracked and broken piece of hell. Even the shattered remains of Lucille’s Wish had been taken from us, pulled under by the hungry sea, now gone forever. I felt a pang at that. That beautiful yacht had been my last link to my deceased sister and now it too was no more.

Randall and I survived but for what purpose?

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