I float away on a soft current, the smell of salt and fish strong in my nostrils. With each breath, a small geyser of water lifts itself from the bottom of my raft, briefly wetting my face. The waves brush languidly against my broken form, caressing my aching body and bringing me a small measure of calm. I roll over onto my back, and agonizingly pull myself upright on the small raft. I can see nothing except blue to the horizon.

I bandage my wounds as best I can with what I have, but now I have little left to do except think. I stare at the horizon, my eyes squinting with the glare of the sun. A fin breaks the water some distance from the raft, cutting through my revenge fueled reverie like a knife. I try to remain as calm as I can as I reach for my sword, but it isn’t there. Instead I find a pistol, loaded with one ball. I grin fiendishly and pull it from my belt.

…

Later that night, I stare at the black spot in my hand under moonlight, as alone as before. I look up at the stars and plot my revenge.