A ship goes down in a raging storm. Men scream out and drown helplessly. It is a black night lit only by fire and lighting. A deep voice howls, and grabs onto a crate. A huge body heaves, and coughs up water. The hands struggle to hang on to frayed ropes, anything that floats. The body shivers and kicks. The body is struggling, desperately trying to stay afloat in cold, turbulent waters. A voice grunts, a mouth spits.
1.
The FIRST HELL: WRECKING
Cold all around. Movement, pressure, screaming, tearing sounds. Waves. Water closing in. Flames. Damned horrible flames. The body drops under, dives. Swims. Away, away. Surface, spy hop. A small boat. A boat! Climb, crawl, fight. Chest over, waist follows. Legs flail, kick, hang off end. Uncomfortable, but floating. Above nasty water. Curl up, arms cross over chest and hands cover head. Shivers, shaking. So cold. Coughing, grunting. Nothing. Nothing. Out.
Heat, white light. Flames. Hearth. Floor. Shoes. Curiosity. Flash of black hair. Slap to the face. Tugging, tripping.
Taunting.
VOICE
-Stronger than me?!
YOUNG BOY VOICE
NO! I—I DON'T!
VOICE
TOO LATE!
(SCREAM!)
BURN!
Burn. Burning. Dying, die….pain. Drip.
Flesh melts away. Agonizing suffering.
DRIP!
CLAW HANDS SHOVE IN FURTHER!
VOICE
DIE!
YOUNG BOY OPENS HIS MOUTH TO SCREAM- NO SOUND, LIPS TWIST JAGGEDLY, NO SOUND, BLOOD, FLESH, BODILY FLUIDS—NO SOUND, JUST RUSHES OF FLUIDS, SQUIRMING, FLAILING, FIGHTING: IT IS ALL FOR NOTHING.
DRIP!
VACUUM OF AIR….SOUND GUSHES TO CATCH UP TO DARKNESS
YELP. A GRUNTING BARK. SEA WATER JERKS OUT OF THE MOUTH. GASP. COUGHING. SHUDDERING. SO COLD AND SO SEARING AT THE SAME TIME.
"Ah…."
He opens his eyes. Searing yellow light, perhaps a fire….no, it is the sun. The sun scowls at him.
"Yellow piss…." he hisses like a snake.
Salt sours his burning mouth. He can't hawk enough to spit. He groans as he struggles to roll over, away from the searing light. Wet sand. Muddy mush. He can taste it without it in his mouth. HEAVE. HE VOMITS, tasting sea water and a bit of wine. He is kneeling without knowing he got into that position. His head swirls.
"Ffff…." he breathes.
He begins to crawl on all fours weakly, trembling. He has so little energy. He gives in, collapsing. He pants. Scrunching his fingers he digs into the drier sand. It puts up no fight. He digs a hole, slowly, and puts his head into it. At least the dog is safe, he thinks. For now. He thrusts his head out angrily. NO! THE DOG IS NOT A COWARD! THE DOG WILL NOT HIDE!
He jerks his front limbs into action, crawling again, a bit faster.
"….the Lord is my strength, my song…."
A warbling, etherial voice carries, reaching his ears. He stops, kneeling up again. His grey eyes dilate, eagerly shifting in the calls direction. He drops down again, and crawls as fast as his hurting body will allow him to.
The warbling stops quite suddenly.
"No," he almost doesn't say softly.
Nervousness. She is not alone. That is all she knows. Oh, what to do now! Her first instinct is flight. To flee. Fly away. Who is close? Who is there? It could be trouble, an animal, something which surely will hurt her. No, not again! Not again!
She hears a bark. A short, cutting bark. A groan. Panting. She shivers, taking a step back. Her sky blue eyes widen, her head tilting.
"What…." she breathes ever so quietly.
She hears sniffing, coughing, another short groan. It sounds low, urgent. A….person? She is unsure. A person in pain. Her instinct decides she must investigate. She skips forward.
A SQUEEZE. No, a grab. She falls ungracefully over a strong resistance, a barrier of something that feels stiff. A GRUNT. HARD. A VIBRATION, DEEP, TERRIBLE. THE STIFFNESS SOFTENS, AND ROLLS UNDER HER LIGHTNING QUICK. ANOTHER, HARDER SQUEEZE. CLAWS THRUST HER BACKWARDS AND PIN HER. AWFUL SMELLS, A FLASHING OF TERRIBLE TEETH, A HORRIFYING, JOLTING STARE. VENOMOUS, ACID.
"YOU'RE HURTING ME, SIR!" she peeps out.
"SIR? Am a dog and you….you're a little bird, aren't you?"
"I am….a sister!"
"Sister….?"
"Sansa!"
"Sansa, the bird has a name."
"Are you a bad dog?"
He almost laughs, almost chokes, taken aback.
"Might be. Could be. Are you a good little bird?"
"I try my best, sir."
"Well…." suddenly, nausea jerks him away….he dry heaves, belching.
"Help me," he bellows, falling like a rock to the sand.
She fidgets out of his claws, angst-ridden. Water, she thinks. He needs water.
She flies away to get some from the little shack. Dogs can suffer. And this one has suffered so much.
Wetness. THAT IS WHAT THE DOG CAN FEEL. Where is the dog? What is the sound? It rocks like the sea, the calm sea….what—what is that feeling….on the dogs head, the dog's….the….no! Not that!
He jerks awake, sense of touch exploding!
"No!" he barks, already half standing up without knowing his reaction.
Shrilling chirp! IT HURTS HIS EAR! HIS HEAD. HE REMEMBERS SEARING PAIN, TOO MUCH TO FEEL, BEING SHOVED, BEING ALMOST CRUSHED!
"FUCK," He swears aloud in a slicing bark, wavering.
"GOODNESS," comes the aghast trilling of the bird. The little bird is frightened again. Skittish little girl-bird. How droll.
He half laughs, half gasps, "You scare the dog as well, girl. The Dog doesn't like touch."
"Forgive me, sir. I was cleaning you." Her eyes were turned down, almost closed, head bent, as if in shame. SHAME ALSO BURNS THE FACE.
On the little one—for the girl looked quite young and was so tiny- the burn of shame was deep red, as surely as her blood must be.
THIS LITTLE BIRD, THIS TINY, CHIRPING GIRL….BURNS TOO. BECAUSE OF THE DOG'S BARK.
"No, little bird, I..I won't hurt you," he hums out in a soft puff, daring to tap his claws upon her heated cheek.
She gasps, eyes darting up, so afraid. So very afraid even with a word given. Or was it the….touch….?!
The tap he has unknowingly given her cheek flies away behind his back, buried there.
He barely whispers, "Shit….!" to himself, all for himself.
The girl peeps something, low and quiet, and he is unsure if she means for him to hear whatever the song says. He turns quickly, suddenly facing her head on.
"What, girl? What do you cheep in this secret song of yours that a dog can't understand, eh? Tell me, it is a stupid mutt, it is!" He crouches, nearly sitting on his heels to hunt for her eyes, her sky blue twin souls that betray so much.
His claws scrape under her chin, and it is a touch which is more rough than he intended, but….he must see. He has to see.
"Please," she chokes on this word, shutting her eyes completely, frustrating him.
A twinge plucks through his stomach, one that crawls through him, like a flea or tick. Fast, running. Desperate to get away and disappear. And, no, he can not scratch this feeling away. He loathes this itch.
"Stop that," he whines, sounding like a petulant child that hates to be tickled. "You can't do that!"
"Why? I'm only trying to help you," says the tiny bird-girl, and he begins to see wet streaks drip down her still burning cheeks.
"So help me, weeping bird, why do you burn me with your tears? Look at me, LOOK—AT—ME! Dog is up on its knees!"
Shaking now, her eyelids bloom open, revealing watery skies. He wants to wipe those waters aside so she might properly look at him straight in the face.
He hesitates, looking for a soft, dry material, and he locates a white rag off to the side. As carefully as he can—he knows she is an easily frightened thing, but very much alive—he dabs at her lashes, lids, wipes her dripping nose, is steering it near her pink, pouted lips, as softly as if he might comb his horse's tangled mane.
"Here, girl," he sighs, tired now. "No more pain now. No more."
She stares straight at him now, as if in a trance, as if he might be The Stranger Himself come to haul her away. She does not blink. Oh, her eyes….her eyes burn, but this burn strangely doesn't cause pain. They burn differently, not like fire, or the damned sun….they sparkle, like clear water, like metal caught in light, something polished, like a dagger, a sword, an ornament. An ornament?! No….!
He wants to tear away! He doesn't like this new burn! Not at all! It feels….foreign! It is not what he knows burning is.
And then, all he sees are these pink lips, so close now, and he thinks she means to kiss him. Instead, they bloom open, and a deeper pink tongue peeked out, darting to lick her pouting lips, and gone it is again.
"Thank you," her voice squeaks out, mousey, timid, as if she asks a question but isn't even sure she is asking a question.
And, just like a blade slash, the burning is no more inside him. Only gushing blood. This time, not only does he tear away, he lets himself run.