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i think my loss of faith is because go too far maybe ten or fifteen minutes a day at what deem best will let me finally piece together real story probably wrong though wont know unless try rightReport this content
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u_sinrith c_story t_all s_unspecified_anyMore from Sinrith
I awoke on soft, warm sand, lost in a fog white and swirling. My right paw was wrapped around the cold neck of a bottle of whiskey and my left held a strange and jagged shell. I had gripped that shell so tight it had cut, and the ribbed and rainbow striations were dark in places with dried blood.
The worst of it though was that I had no idea how I had gotten there. The second worst thing was that as I rose I realized the bottle was empty.
I let it slip from my grip and glass met sand with hardly a whisper, muffled by the mist and the pounding in my head. I think I whimpered as I staggered away from the thunderous crash of the surf.
"Think," I muttered, staring down at the shell in my paw. Bloodied though it was it was brilliant in it's way, one of those weird shards that so resembled stained glass windows or the hypnotic combination of motor oil and rain water in parking lot puddles.
I turned it over. The inside was bone white, ridged and rhimed and riddled with grit. Apparently whatever had once lived inside it had no need for color when it was clamped tight within its confines.
"Curious," I slurred, looking back at the bottle I had dropped. No, it was empty, empty as the shell.
Yet alcoholics always double check. They do, you know. There's a certain despair when you realize you reach the bottom. You have to be sure.
I shifted my gaze to the mist. The ocean was behind me, and I thought I saw the ghosts of palms and blade grass before me, rising beshadowed beneath brooding thunderheads, though it could have been a trick of the mind.
The worst of it though was that I had no idea how I had gotten there. The second worst thing was that as I rose I realized the bottle was empty.
I let it slip from my grip and glass met sand with hardly a whisper, muffled by the mist and the pounding in my head. I think I whimpered as I staggered away from the thunderous crash of the surf.
"Think," I muttered, staring down at the shell in my paw. Bloodied though it was it was brilliant in it's way, one of those weird shards that so resembled stained glass windows or the hypnotic combination of motor oil and rain water in parking lot puddles.
I turned it over. The inside was bone white, ridged and rhimed and riddled with grit. Apparently whatever had once lived inside it had no need for color when it was clamped tight within its confines.
"Curious," I slurred, looking back at the bottle I had dropped. No, it was empty, empty as the shell.
Yet alcoholics always double check. They do, you know. There's a certain despair when you realize you reach the bottom. You have to be sure.
I shifted my gaze to the mist. The ocean was behind me, and I thought I saw the ghosts of palms and blade grass before me, rising beshadowed beneath brooding thunderheads, though it could have been a trick of the mind.
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General
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