I awoke on the cold grey shore with blood on my face and sweat on my brow. Bleeding in anguish I clutched my side and looked to the west as the sun had long since begun to set. I coughed up an ichor of blackest night, and wiped it on the sand, the tar sticking it to my hands. I felt so filthy in the squalor of my own gore, and so I arose and found myself upon a promontory over troubled waters, churning with the fuel of a storm steadfast. 

I lowered myself into the cold black water and felt the tendrils of icy relief find their way into my aching soul. The salt burned away at my open wounds, but surely it was better to sanitize them with the sting of the ocean than let them fester with the pestilence of the microscopic just out of vision. I looked upon the sky to see the clouds churning and calling to me with a fear that gripped and throttled my heart, like I was a racecar switching to third gear. I was on some quest of dreams perhaps, but not necessarily, for it did occur to me that I had bled and felt pain most severe. I determined quickly on this promontory by the sea that I had most likely been out on the yacht with my children and beautiful wife when some storm long passed had knocked me overboard on the open ocean. I held my gaping chest wound and removed my wet clothes, twisting them to remove the water, and applying a tourniquet. Pressure was good. I was perfectly healthy outside of my wound so walking was not any discomfort. Such as this I surveyed the shoreline I found myself trapped on. Driftwood dotted the shore with its timber stained grey with the inky black caress of the deep. The shore was about a four foot drop from the promontory at most places except for the very end where I was standing ankle deep in the abyss. The cold grey sky churned with a rage that stemmed from the wrath of some force of nature. It reminded me of my wife, with her long brown hair and beautiful red lips. She was beautiful in a very terrifying way. The sky was the same in this way. That if you anger her, she will change from her shimmering colors of blue, orange, and purple into grey and black mists of angry zephyrs. I longed to see my love again. And thus my journey began. I took a moment to walk upon the elevated earth of the promontory. There was a fence along the shoreline with a little shack on a hill in the distance. It had a field of grass dead and brown leading its way to the open doorway, swinging in the violent winds that were and would be. I approached and felt strangely as the grass crossed across my bare feet and sliced my skin ever so lightly, not very deeply, ever so slowly. I approached the shack and was discomforted by the tall grass, dead and sharp. The grass grew tallest directly next to the overgrown shack, with its rusty hinges screeching. A wheel from a carriage from a time long past laid out and rust itself into decay with the salty seaside air. I needn’t ask if someone was inside, for I could surely tell it was abandoned. I walked into the shack and almost instantly the door closed behind me from the wind. I wished deeply I had a flashlight or a match, but I did not. The door was rusted heavily and had found itself jarred slightly past shut. It was impossible to open and I was stricken with fear. I took solace in the window that had long since degraded, whose panes had long been broken, and whose purpose had long since been completed. I looked to the sky and a violet orb of lightning and thunder raged on in the tempestuous ocean air. I felt the cold wetness of the wood around me splinter and crack with the wind pushing at its sides. I could only look out the window shortly before the entire structure was pulled to pieces. It would be more accurate to say I assisted in its collapse; the claustrophobia destroying my perception. I kept slamming into the eastern wall as I hoped it would break. It did. I slipped down the other side of the hill with mud squelching away and freezing in the icy grasp of the weather until my consciousness was suddenly stolen.