Day Fifteen.
As of yesterday, it's two weeks that Sirius has been trapped on this damned rock out at sea. There's been no forgiveness earned for all his time spent, and the hours stretch as long and hopeless now as they did on the first day. There's little to do but watch the shadows move across the cave floor as the sun sweeps across the sky, or watch the distant shimmer of the island, which is worse. The cell offers him shelter, at least, and keeps him from the exposure that otherwise surely would have killed him by now. Several days ago, he'd tied his t-shirt to the top right corner of the door, where it now flaps endlessly in the ocean breeze. It's another fool's hope: the white cotton blends too easily into the landscape of the sea to be seen from this distance.
Even with conservative rationing, he'd run out of food by the end of the first week. Tiny crabs populate the jagged rock outside and skitter along on impudent legs, their claws lifted toward the sky. The first had been the most difficult to catch and kill, had required Sirius to crouch silent and still for hours with a boot cautiously extended through steel bars until one to moved close enough to crush with the heel. He'd swept up his prize in trembling fingers, hastily ripped the shell away and ravenously sucked the pale meat from inside. Juice running down his chin and fingers bloodied, he'd retched and nearly spit it all back up again.
Both catching and eating crabs had been easier after that, though. All he has to do is set the dessicated shell of his last kill just inside the bars, and the little cannibals invariably come running, just in time to meet the bottom of his boot. He's had nothing but raw crab and water for a week now, but he doesn't think about it on those terms. He thinks about staying alive, and nothing more. He only eats raw crab, but he does eat.
He'll be damned if he dies out here, stripped of the fate he's owed. He'll be damned if this place beats him down. You don't own me! he screams into the wind, or maybe it's just in his head.
I'm Sirius Black, and you don't own me.
Even with conservative rationing, he'd run out of food by the end of the first week. Tiny crabs populate the jagged rock outside and skitter along on impudent legs, their claws lifted toward the sky. The first had been the most difficult to catch and kill, had required Sirius to crouch silent and still for hours with a boot cautiously extended through steel bars until one to moved close enough to crush with the heel. He'd swept up his prize in trembling fingers, hastily ripped the shell away and ravenously sucked the pale meat from inside. Juice running down his chin and fingers bloodied, he'd retched and nearly spit it all back up again.
Both catching and eating crabs had been easier after that, though. All he has to do is set the dessicated shell of his last kill just inside the bars, and the little cannibals invariably come running, just in time to meet the bottom of his boot. He's had nothing but raw crab and water for a week now, but he doesn't think about it on those terms. He thinks about staying alive, and nothing more. He only eats raw crab, but he does eat.
He'll be damned if he dies out here, stripped of the fate he's owed. He'll be damned if this place beats him down. You don't own me! he screams into the wind, or maybe it's just in his head.
I'm Sirius Black, and you don't own me.