tw's:

there is supposed to be something about threes. you have only ever caught glimpses of the world around you, tiny flashes amid bleary eyes, heavy heart, clouded mind.

but there is supposed to be something about threes. you know this.

the moon. the stars.

that's two.

the third, you think, is supposed to be the sun.

( of course. )

it would be, at least, had it been visible. you haven't seen it since you arrived here.

you have torn yourself free from every sharp point and dull moment, feet slogging through black shores and red waves, salt stinging every cut.

( how much time has passed? does it matter anymore? )

the red liquid pooling at your feet reminds you of someone, this you know, and so you spend far too long attempting to chase that fractured tidbit of a memory into the recesses of your mind, body frozen still upon the sand.

there is nothing to be found, of course, but that doesn't stop you from trying until your hamstrings burn, and you fall to your knees with your fists pressed into the grit.

you've been told before that there would be a change, a metamorphosis, but still an end. nothing to be afraid of.

you wonder if you were afraid anyways.

it doesn't matter anymore, you know. this is a new beginning, even if it hurts.

pitch and seawater have stained your fingers dark ( or perhaps they always have been ) and at this point it's difficult to tell whether that faceted moon in the sky has simply eclipsed the sun or if it no longer exists here.

you know that something has found you.