April 15, 2012

A dull rage sets in. It envelops his brain,
softly, surrounds it, and just sits for a while.
Things stew.

The right to be peeved is his, is it not? Can
you deny it? He did, yet again, get the short
end.

Stranded now, much like he was when you
found him. At the moment of meeting he
had a raft, meager and sad. Still, you climbed
aboard, (he did need company) and after you
rested and recharged, you leapt from his little
craft and, growing ten times your normal size,
splashed into the ocean, causing waves of–
what else?–epic proportions. Of course these
rose up and swallowed him, poor boy.

Poor boy. He floats aimlessly, treading water, growing furious with each passing sun soaked day. Birds shit on his peeling red head, and fish bite his toes and fingers and dick. He doesn’t care; he’s not even aware of it, mostly. Floating there, arms and legs doing just enough to keep his head above water, he sometime lets the sea enter his mouth. He spits it out slowly, swallowing a little. It gets in his eyes, and this causes him to tear up. It is just the water though; it’s just the water, and the sun, and the birds. He won’t cry about that raft, he thinks angrily. That raft was a fucking joke.

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