Seven
Feeling bad. The fish was bad. Ate a lot of it, as to not waste what I have, and…
Drifting constantly in and out of sleep. Feeling wretched. Everything is throbbing. Snatches of my old life come back to me in nightmares. Bills. Money. Raised voices. All the times my lack of social graces got the better of me. Awful. Awful. Awful.
Too weak to fetch and prepare water. Too cautious to waste what’s left of my provisions. Just laying here and waiting to die.
Had a vision last night. Bright lights; yellow and green and red and blinding white. A resounding howl at deafening volume. The sort of noise that stirs one’s very bones. It was the god of this place, a god of storms and anger. It turned its searching eyes upon this beach, and I hid from it; curling up in a ball and hiding beneath my raft. Was it the fish? Was it the way its silvery eyes filled with panic as it struggled on my spear? If it was, then I’m not even sure if I’m sorry.
Maybe I’ll die. Even if I don’t, I don’t think it will be too far away.