The water fills the shell of his ears, a muted roar that scraps along his lungs. He opens his mouth, bubbles of life peeking from his lips. He claws at the glimmering surface, draws the entire ocean into his body, swirling and raging. He drowns with no one to save him.
He doesn't want it to end. So he crawls back.
The waves slam against him, rocking his body back and folding him into its embrace. He gasps; a hand shudders against his and pulls him up. A precious breath and a single moment of a tattered straw hat drifting along the surface of the ocean, greased with blood. He goes under again.
He crawls back.
He digs into the side of the rowboat; the bandit's weight thumps against his side. Each kick jerks his body loose but he scrambles for a firm grip. Fingertips raw and ragged, he clings on, vision blurred with the singing salt spray from the sea. The kicking pauses - the rowboat sways. He catches a glimpse of a straw hat, strains at the echoing howl of guns firing. The tiny raft flips over and he can't even hold on anymore.
Back.
The sea pitches uneven waves at him and he takes in a mouthful of salt. The sky's blue, an almost identical reflection of the waves. The ripples of the sea are marked with streaks of clouds and the air is cool against panicking flesh scrambling for the surface. He gasps; a hand shudders against his and pulls him up.
Forehead pressed against a damp beating thudding heart so warm and bright, and he clutches onto the ripped end of a sleeve. He tastes blood in the salt of the water, consumes the whisper of the shore.
He weeps.
Just an arm.
This time.
