Blood Light

Just keep going. Have to keep going. Can't stop. Keep going. Have to hold on to life.

Pain was life, they said, yet there was no pain now. There was only numbness. The cold that washed over him in relentless waves seeped over his splintered door, through his clothes, through his skin, but he felt nothing. Not anymore. It had hurt at first, when he was hurled into the midnight water by a Fate that willed the ship to sink. The water had been fire and ice, burning his skin and freezing his breath. But now, there was nothing. No pain, no feeling, no thoughts. Nothing. He was dead.

No, not dead. There was the light. The light kept him alive, kept him going. He spied it mere minutes after he escaped from the sinking prison, after he realized he was the only one to survive the explosion. A tiny dot of light out in the distance - another boat perhaps. A chance to make it back home. His only chance, his only choice. It beckoned him, pulled him toward a dim hope on the horizon. He kept his eyes on it, not daring to blink for a moment lest it forever fade.

It would fade sometimes, though. It would twinkle and shine as it did now, then disappear, swallowed by the sea, leaving him guideless in this hell. He would cry then. Cry out for his lost hope. Cry out for it to return to him. Then, when his voice would begin to fail and failure seemed certain, it would rise up out of the endless darkness, reassuring him that hope still waited for him. Hope hadn't forgotten, and would not forsake.

Sanity would forsake though. His own was gone, taken by the cold, gone like the pain. Some years ago, back when he could still think, back when the ship and the flames were still in front of him, he spoke to himself of hypothermia, of the shock of cold that would rob him of all coherency. The slow death that would take away all memory of a past, and leave him with not but moments for a future.

What was future? It was the light. Red, he could see now it was red. It was a big as his fist now, and it bobbed and swayed as it grew bigger and brighter. It was so close. He had to keep kicking, even though he couldn't feel his legs anymore. He only knew that they still kicked because he still moved forward, and prayed they continued. Keep kicking, just a little more.

And still more. The light teased him, moved forward, then retreated from him in a dance he couldn't follow. He swam in blood now, he was so close to the light. It reached out across the darkness, caressed his face in cold warmth, blinding him though he couldn't look away. His beacon, his hope. He had almost reached it.

And there it was. A buoy. His hope was a buoy. Buoys had bells, right? But he heard nothing. All of his senses were gone now, but he had reached it. He could stay there, wait for someone - anyone - to find him. A boat, a rescue boat would come to investigate the explosion, yes. They would search for him, he would call them to them somehow. They would find him. He would make it because he did what he set out to do. He'd gotten to this light. He could do anything. If there was a god in the heavens or a fate in the sky, they would not let him die here. Not after he'd reached this light. He gazed at it in reverie. He wanted to reach out, to grasp his hope, to hold it in his frozen hand. It was his.

Oh, but his body. So cold and devoid of life, it did not want to obey. He cried out as he broke his grip on the wood. But pain, no, there was no pain. The sight of splinters piercing his palm, the blood mingling with the red ocean, reminded him that he should be in agony, but the feeling eluded him. There was nothing but gratitude for the buoy, that dancing metal miracle that smiled at him, reached for him. So close it was. Another moment, and it would be in his grasp.

Just to grasp the icy metal was joy. He laughed, a cackle that echoed across the sea. Never had such ectasy graced him. He moved over the rickety wood of his door, pulling himself toward the buoy, shredding his skin without care. He wanted nothing more than to be near it, to cling to it and rock with it and be the buoy. It was his future. He looked up at the light winking down at him. To touch it? It was heaven, it was hope. He had to touch.

Reaching to touch it, he felt the wood shudder beneath him. Before he could steady himself, his makeshift raft slid out from under him, attempting to wrench him away from his light. He gripped the buoy with what strength he had left in his injured hand, trying to grab it with his other though he was suspended between the door and the light. But his only hope betrayed him, and the buoy jerked away from him in a sudden change of heart.

Down his heart plunged, as he lost his hold on the sharp metal bar of the buoy. An explosion, a bolt of ice through his temples, and a sharp sting in his eyes greeted him. He was floating now, the light resting above him, hovering in the blurry night. Water, he was beneath the water now, where the wind could not touch him, and the cold could not hurt him because he was the cold. He smiled and reached out again for the light. His hand felt so strange - surreal and detached from the rest of him. A lethargic calmness approached, and all else fell away as he let this new serenity wash over him, this new peace.

Life was peace now. He watched the light move further away from him with some curiosity, but it honestly didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He welcomed the darkness that closed around his vision, that closed out everything but the light. Red to orange to yellow to white. It narrowed, smaller and smaller as he fell further and further. Peace. Silence. Darkness.

There was darkness. Nothing but darkness. And he was going.