Thanks for reading! Firstly, I couldn't find anything to do with Raoul/Tiago Silva/Rodriguez, so I had to put it under James Bond (my apologies). He also doesn't actually make an appearance in this fist chapter, but he will do next. Thirdly, please tell me what you think! If it comes across as too overblown, tell me! If it comes across as badly written, tell me! I can only make it better if I'm aware of what's wrong in the first place. And yes, I am well aware that this is rather short, but they will, hopefully, grow as they go on.
Writing this came after being inspired by MissScaryKitty's story (go and check it out, it's amazing), as it was disappointingly the only Silva one out there, and I hoped to add to the collection.
Without further ado, let the story unfold.
The water hurt me.
I never knew that a simple liquid could do so much damage. Like every child growing up in a first-world country, I'd swallowed water treated with chlorine at the local swimming pool, and of course I'd suffered at its hands for the past... god knows how many days, but I'd done so whilst mustering as much of my dignity as humanly possible, my absolute faith in my mental strength getting me through the bleak horror of being lost at sea.
I was so STUPID. I was angry and yet content at my imminent death, feeling I had led a life that would impress the most jaded of biographers, yet convinced I wasn't noteworthy in any way. Surely there was so much more I had to live for, even on a basic, or carnal level? I had never known the heat, nor love of a strong man I'd dreamed of, not even finding pleasure with my short, thin fingers. I wanted that, and I wanted what everyone else seemed to have- a happy life, a job, a functioning world. I would never get these things. I should have known right from the start that it was worthless, that I was a useless bag of lean fat and bones, that nothing truly mattered in the end, no matter how hard you had strived for that one thing, the desire and desperation ripping and tearing at your weary, malnourished insides, your one true fear (or your hundreds of true fears) would jump snarling and gnashing like a starved pitbull at your broken self, and take you. Where? No-one knows. But after having that pitbull nipping at my ankles for so long, I recognised its jaw closing around me.
It should have burned my insides knowing that I'd come within breathing distance of a sanctity, but I simply resigned myself, almost finding comfort in the fact that I would be dead before I reached the land I had struggled towards using the last of my energy; after all, if I had gotten there and discovered that the obviously abandoned town island was indeed, abandoned, I couldn't have done much more than lay down and die. But no, Victoria Stevens didn't lay down and die. She stood on her own two feet, only to be destroyed by Mother Nature herself. I was Victoria, and though I was to be conquered by the ocean, the heavy water pushing my lungs downwards (which way was downwards?) I could go to my watery grave knowing that I had given so much.
Drowning is the third largest cause of unintentional death worldwide, and I was about to become a statistic.