(no subject)
title: salvation
author: forgottenevil
genre:original fictional
rating: g-pg
characters: none specified.
summary: water. raft. salvation from what?.
notes: .i really dont know. a mutation of an idea left too long
He didn’t know how long he had been lying here, drifting in and out of thoughts and consciousness.
It had been long enough that the sky had changed so many times that he couldn’t quite recall what colour a sky was supposed to be. He was also having difficulty remembering if what he was looking at was not simply a moving, eddying, living floor.
He had also been lying there, unmoving, long enough to lack recollection of the rough wood digging savagely into his back, arms, legs and other expanses of exposure he could care less to be showing.
The rocking that the pitiless sea below him had once seemed to be creating now seemed more like a swirling motion. As if it was threatening to consume him, the toothpick he was on and his shards of cloth in its tornadic trance.
He was quite certain his last conscious thought had been wishing for something to that extent, as there seemed to be no hope of survival. The last times he had checked there had been nothing but the savage expanse of all that did not lie around him. But after extensive consideration he had surmised that there was an incessant sky up, infinite sea below, and he was on some shifty, painful, not to mention tiny raft. Where he was and why he was there seemed to be illusive questions number 300 and 486 on his currently water damaged list.
There were many reasons why he hadn’t moved for so long, exhaustion and fear of toppling were the too primary. But joining them now was the fear of what he should find if he did move. Even swivelling his eyes to the left or right could potentially cause him to lapse into a state of shock that could be fatal. A risk he was just simply not willing to take. What if whilst he had been out of it Martians had abducted his arm right off his body? Then he would be left with a stump, where the child-mudpie colour of his skin met the vulnerable pink of the layers of flesh below, before becoming consumed by the almost vengeful red that seemed willing to escape his body any chance it was given. But then, he mused, below all that there would be the bone, white and perhaps sawed smoothly. The almost pure colour, proposing that there was something good inside, just if maybe he could get at it. And besides, how much did he really need his arm if it meant he could finally end the seemingly illusive search for something that was not tainted and covered in, bluntly, crap.
By the time he was envisioning himself, dark man against a pale sky, with shards of his very expensive suit trailing off and behind him like some distorted romance, waving at nothing in particular with his arm bone in hand, he was pretty sure he had breached what they called the delusional, or perhaps this was the meaning of sanity. Then he passed out for the final time.
The next thing he knew there was water gently lapping at his feet and everything was far too calm. The type of calm that seems to be a fanciful load of garbage created by over-analytical minds, until you experience it yourself. A feeling suddenly consumed him, like the silence was trying desperately to escape into his brain and hide; perhaps it was a smear at his intellect?
All he knew was his mind was becoming clearer, and seemingly emerging from the fog of resistance that had captured it. Clear to the point every limb and nerve ending was spasming with crystal lucidity. Run. Why, how, where, from what, did not matter; just run.
By the time he was on his feet, his eyes had managed to spring open, and he again found himself seated on his behind.
Nothing much had changed surroundings wise, except now he seemed to be on a randomly placed sand bar about 6 meters in length and 4 meters wide. His toothpick was kindly absent, no doubtly taken as his sacrificial gift to the sea.
But what had forced his body back down, left him gazing in almost sacred wonder, was the figure advancing towards him, seeming to be walking on the water. Now he had watched far too much wrestling in his not-too-past teen hood, and had his religion drilled so hard into his head there was in fact an indent; but this was no poor pyro trick and it certainly wasn’t any Jesus.
This, whatever it was, that was slowly advancing on him held no reassurance of entertainment, hope or redemption; but rather salvation. Should hope and redemption not follow and incorporate with salvation? Perhaps, but that just did not seem to fit the criteria. Salvation without redemption or hope? That seemed to only incite fear.
It appeared to slink across the water, standing as high as your ordinary man. The sun shone at a peculiar angle, seeming to illuminate its face, yet keeping it in darkness none the less. Contrary to appearances it was most certainly an it, for no human could possibly obtain this atmosphere, especially when it hadn’t even breached the 10 meter radius.
A white gown fluttered at its ankles, a reflection of the colour of its skin. Its body was set not in masculinity, but rather simply set firmly, a black velvet tie at the hip helping to accentuate a form. A contortion of colour seemed to desperately leap off pale scared arms that were raised at waist height as if presenting nothing in particular, perhaps itself. Its dark hair rose high off its head, set in spiked points that seemed a sick irony of what would be described as liberty. These spikes seemed unnatural in their perfection, jutting like a protective weapon at even angles, ready to let fire at any given moment.
Random points of the face seemed to be gleaming with small reflected lights from the sun, and he wasn’t sure but he thought the face was set calmly, eyes open fully, even though they should have been squinting against the brilliance that seemed to simply appear. This thing did not appear to be physically old, probably in his mid twenties, a similar age to the man currently buzzed with anticipation stranded helplessly on a barge in the middle of no-where.
It seemed to take an eon for whatever it was to reach the barge, and by that time this darkened man had his eyes screwed so firmly shut he was seeing colours behind his lids and aching from the effort. He was sure he was shaking and sobbing, having already drawn his body close to his chest in a feeble effort to protect himself. He felt like he had regressed to infancy, where he had been able to openly express his fears, something he had fought the desire to do for so long he could hardly believe he was still capable of feeling the need.
Calloused fingertips brushed the side of his face, removing what must have been sand. It wasn’t done gently or in a disciplinary manner, but rather in a way that demanded a response.
With a will that seemed not to be his own he rose his bister eyes, so fearful that what he felt was shown there, marked clearly in the depths that at first seemed endless but then faded to a lighter hue as they entered into his pupil.
What should follow next should be a cease in time, the capture of a moment where breath is held and the sea and sky cease to exist. But the facial expression of what he decided could be a monster out of the most exquisite dream ever experienced, no the facial expression was passive; To the furthest stretch of the word. So much so that a passing glance seemed entirely too much, like the entirety of the being could be surmised in half that glance.
And yet as he looked away with a feeling of boredom it occurred to him the only thing he had actually viewed where that those balls of light were in fact piercings, scattered in what appeared to be a co-incidence matter across its face. Lips, eyebrow, ears, cheeks, bridge of the nose, they all held steel balls and rods.
This was the type of thing you turned away from on the street, tried hard not to draw attention to or from, this was something that was below normal society, this was, rebellion perhaps. Expression, choice, desire, these were not the first words associated when this game was played.
No, the manifestation and gift reflected so clearly just in front of these stainless rods was disregarded. It was so easy to say ‘judge not lest thee be judges’ but people like this simple begged to be judged. So why was it that there was so much more being said here, and just how brief and in-depth had that glance been?
Again tempting a look, causing the fear to return tenfold, the man that felt as if he were becoming consumed by the sand below him was caught. The mask of inert was still firmly in place, but this time it demanded further inspection. Idly the thought flittered through his mind that the first glance had been a test, one he had failed miserably.
Disregarding this thought he rose into a sitting position, hand raised against the sun that he realised had not been there before.
A hoarse rumble escaped from somewhere around him, something that sounded like ‘help’ and ‘what’.
Contemplation on who was there with him faded with the sobs that had been racking his body, as its hands he could now see contained tattoos gentle held his face. It was crouched down so that its robe ghosted over his legs; their faces almost on an equal level. Hard thumbs brushed across his cheeks as he felt the moisture brushed aside like it never existed. He knew he should feel shame, even terror at the vulnerability he’d shown. The fact he could find no explanation except that it was right would have disconcerted him perhaps in another time. He knew he would have usually brushed off the hands that now seemed to be the only thing supporting him, would have rejected any form of comfort in exchange for his privacy, his own self dependence, his own hard shell.
But now, no now he simple rose and lunged at this form. Literally dived into the arms and folds of cotton, seeking desperately more of the comfort he didn’t know he had desired. Disconnection was a beautiful thing if ever there was one, and this was regression to its most infant state.
He consumed himself in the material that seemed to expand just for his needs, worming and squirming like a child on a Saturday morning in their parent’s bed. Sighing finally, he was covered by the material that now locked out every other danger that the ocean, sky and sand presented. He had ended up with his head resting on its chest. He imagined he could hear a faint heart beat, that his head was rising and falling with the intake and exhale of breathe, but they were just livid fantasies.
Even now in such intimate proximity, he found he could no longer face the eyes he felt gazing lightly at the top of his head. ‘Please, oh, please save me’ who was speaking?
Maybe it was a rumble, maybe it was laughter, and maybe it was nothing. But hands began stroking the crown of his head, forcing his eyes to slide shut.
So now he could only feel. Feel as the clean white fabric was lifted gently over his face, as the cotton brushed his check and he inhaled what was a fresh smell, but held no specification.
As the material became tighter, he became calmer. The sand below him seemed to be shifting and accommodating them both, seemed to be swallowing them gently.
He blindly reached out, Seeking reassurance, grasping a hand with both of his and holding on, though it provided no comfort. The white cloth entered his mouth, forcing it open as it found its way down his throat, leaving him unable to draw breath.
But he did not struggle, scream or resist it. Perhaps this was what drowning was like, as he felt his eyes roll back in his head. Felt his muscles relax, all except for those that that held the hand in his possession.
He desired some reaction from it, to show that this was really happening, it was a human requirement, for some form of acknowledgement, but he received none. Even as the centre of his bones restricted with his desire for air he felt no mental discomfort. Not until his final thought, when terror seized, and the realisation dawned.
What was his salvation?