she rides a pale horse: named death, rickety and reeking of motor oil. their journey had been long, or perhaps it had just felt that way. the seconds dragged by arrogantly, taking their sweet time as gloria rocked along with the rest. she knows three things: the first, is that she cannot see. blindfolded with damp red cloth, which had remained as such (damp) thanks to her tears. the second, is that she is in a boat. a small one, she guesses, by the feeling of it beneath her: tackling the waves. the third, is that she is not alone. gloria can feel the shifting weight of those beside her, captors and fellow captives alike. she’s brushing shoulders with other human beings for the first time in months, but it’s not the comfort she imagined. no, in fact, there’s very little of this evening gloria could’ve imagined at all. the ocean grows louder as they approach the shore. there is little comfort to be sought in the prospect of solid ground --- all gloria can imagine awaits her there is death. she makes her final deal with god, begging him to be swift. a mercy she does not deserve. rough hands meet trembling skin: hoisting her to stand. she almost collapses under her own weight, a long-held sob finally freeing itself from her throat. when feet hit the sand, she’s ankle deep in water: ice cold and foaming at her calves. gloria wishes she could see. she wishes her hands were free of their binds and she wishes her shoes weren’t wet. most of all, she wishes theodore were there, too. instead, she is marched: forward and forward again. when they finally pull to a stop, gloria is granted a single wish --- although she would rather she hadn’t been. blindfold torn away and her sight returned to her, gloria is greeted with this: an island, a gate, and ... a woman.
@herholy + closed starter.
