i feel the salty waves come in; i feel them crash against my skin
Hellstrom's growing restless; there's no denying that. The rain didn't help that. After spending the large portion of the first day of it inside, he found he couldn't do it any longer, and as a result spent most of the rest of what he supposed was rain season soaked to the bone. Now that it's clear, the time he spends wandering has gone back to taking up an inordinate amount of his schedule.
When he wanders down to the beach in the late afternoon, the sun's out, albeit looking a bit wan. Upon reaching the shore, he stops just as the waves begin to lap at his feet. A total of five seconds passes before he shucks off his shirt and dives into the water. It's cold, there's no question about that. It isn't, however, anything he's unprepared for. He stays under until the momentum from his dive won't take him any further, then propelling himself further out into the water before letting his head bob up above the water.
He doesn't gasp, mouth simply in a surprised sort of O when he breaks the surface, air filling his lungs again as he keeps himself afloat. His hair is plastered to his head, unkempt and unruly in contrast to how it used to be. Slowly, he lets himself onto his back, eyes stinging slightly with the water as he gazes up as the sky, arms and legs turning in slow circles just under the water, carrying him further and further out to sea. It's curiously quiet, almost disturbingly so, as the pub had been just moments before his death, anticipation hanging thick in the air.
But this isn't anticipation.
He doesn't know what it is.
He spends the next half hour swimming, a pale speck in the water as viewed from the shore, before starting to make his way back to the island. A dull ache makes itself known in his limbs, a reminder of the fact that he hasn't kept as fit as he used to (as he should be; he is still only muscle and bone, but he's grown complacent). When he reaches the beach again, he makes it a few yards within the space where he tossed down his shirt, the white fabric turning every now and then in the wind, dampened by drops of water from the sea. Picking it up, he doesn't deign to wear it, using it instead to scrub some of the water from his hair.
It's only once he's tamed the mop of brown hair into something manageable that he notices anyone else on the beach.
When he wanders down to the beach in the late afternoon, the sun's out, albeit looking a bit wan. Upon reaching the shore, he stops just as the waves begin to lap at his feet. A total of five seconds passes before he shucks off his shirt and dives into the water. It's cold, there's no question about that. It isn't, however, anything he's unprepared for. He stays under until the momentum from his dive won't take him any further, then propelling himself further out into the water before letting his head bob up above the water.
He doesn't gasp, mouth simply in a surprised sort of O when he breaks the surface, air filling his lungs again as he keeps himself afloat. His hair is plastered to his head, unkempt and unruly in contrast to how it used to be. Slowly, he lets himself onto his back, eyes stinging slightly with the water as he gazes up as the sky, arms and legs turning in slow circles just under the water, carrying him further and further out to sea. It's curiously quiet, almost disturbingly so, as the pub had been just moments before his death, anticipation hanging thick in the air.
But this isn't anticipation.
He doesn't know what it is.
He spends the next half hour swimming, a pale speck in the water as viewed from the shore, before starting to make his way back to the island. A dull ache makes itself known in his limbs, a reminder of the fact that he hasn't kept as fit as he used to (as he should be; he is still only muscle and bone, but he's grown complacent). When he reaches the beach again, he makes it a few yards within the space where he tossed down his shirt, the white fabric turning every now and then in the wind, dampened by drops of water from the sea. Picking it up, he doesn't deign to wear it, using it instead to scrub some of the water from his hair.
It's only once he's tamed the mop of brown hair into something manageable that he notices anyone else on the beach.