u̲n̲p̲r̲e̲c̲e̲d̲e̲n̲t̲e̲d̲
Ｓａｎｄｙ ｓｈｏｒｅｓ．．
Ｓａｌｔｙ ｗａｔｅｒ．．．
l ａｂｏｒｅｄ ｂｒｅａｔｈｓ．. .
ᗩ ᗰᗩᑎ ᒪᗩYᔕ ᑌᑭOᑎ ᗩ ᗷEᗩᑕᕼEᗪ ᔕᕼOᖇE.
ℍ𝕖 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕤
𝕠𝕣
W𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕙𝕖 came 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞.
All he knows is that he’s cold... tired... hungry. He is shirtless, with two bands around his right arm. He wears crimson pants that are tattered at the knees, absolutely drenched, along with black sneakers. He is of a tan complexion, with medium long indigo-cerulean hair and a pony-tail that reaches halfway down his back. His ears are long and pointed at a slight angle. The only goods he carries are his wits, and his will to live.
Choking out lungs full of salt water, he grips the sand beneath him. In his desperation, he clings to a breath that takes him minutes to drudge up. Finally, he can lay against the shore line, in peace. The afternoon sun peaks through the clouds and shines against his face.
“Where the hell...” he whispers.
His thoughts precede him.
He’s freezing. As he moves to his knees, and starts to stand, he scans the environment- trying to analyze his current situation. Last he remembers is the war... sparks fly through his mind and he lets out another cough.
He needs to find warmth... safety.
Upon his last glance, he sees a church, standing tall in the distance. He can see a light in its cloudy window. He gazes upon it in glory, as if he has won the lottery. A church meant people, and people meant civilization. Little does he know that this church has been untouched by man for centuries.
Opening the cement doors (that were covered in moss), a cloud of dust follows. He can hear his steps echoing among the forested church and his body trembles.
“Hello?” he shouts, only his voice greeting him in reply.
“Anyone home?”
Nothing.
He shivers, his teeth clattering as he enters the monument. He’s never been one to believe in any sort of God, but he figures a church oughta be a safe place.
