Sweet Adrenaline {Griffin Neon}

He felt like drowning. But, he knows he isn’t. Addressing this sensation as drowning would be misphrasing. He wasn’t suffocating in the copper-bottomed depths, he was pulsing with energy and at the acme of his life.

A veil of cobalt blue blankets the entirety of the realm, the currents present itself as dim shimmers and marine creatures thrived. Coolness kissed each and every portion of his porcelain skin—his freckles, his digits and his chiseled frame. Dirty blonde threads had shifted into golden strings, swaying and fluttering, free from the clasp of gravity. He could defy gravity here, gliding on the smooth surface of ivory stones—their rigidness washed off by the eons of salt water. It had taken him a lengthy amount of time to deny his innards of air and every single one of his efforts were worth it. Poseidon Arnav could now afford to spend longer minutes here, in amidst of his domain. He doesn’t want to exit. He takes comfort in the subtle lapping of ethereal waves, their only purpose is to rock him into a non-fitful slumber.

It is not foolish of him to yearn for a slumber underneath the white froth of waves. Tranquility displays itself in a crystalline manner here. There are no noise, only the humming of aquatic life and the rhythmic melody of the depths—it tugs onto his nerves and beg him to stay, like a daughter crying at his father before he leaves. He reaches out his digits, intending to lace fingers with the embodiment of the depths. Her touch is cold and refreshing to the skin, similar to everything else here. Under the sea, there is an ongoing orchestra of peaceful, melodic tunes and it is never coming to a recess.

(Put me to sleep forever.)

Bubbles wave at his lips goodbye as gravity grapples them upwards, where the blanket of the sea lies, restless and forever bouncing. The spectrum of yellows from the sun kiss the teal of the waters and they birth lines hued with aqua. This blanket rolls, sometimes subtly, sometimes ferociously. But it is never coming to a stop. The role of it is a gateway and its job is to divide the two realms—the underwater and the ground. The underwater is tranquility and calm, the ground is chaos and cacophony. His domain tops the surface world in a variety of ways. But, a cruel fate had been bestowed upon him ever since the formation of his as an embryo. The sands would all be drained and the time of separation between Poseidon and the underwater would arrive after ticks of mere minutes.

His body was protesting for a breath.
He answers wants to resist the ground’s call.

Air escape the prison of his lips after taking the form of bubbles. They idly swam to the surface and Poseidon followed their trails, the blanket of aqua inching closer and closer to him until air rushed into his lungs after a long time and his ears popped. Legs were making heavy waddles, it is not his desire to leave the abyss of water—it is his desire to thrive in the abyss of water. His regard towards a fish was thick with envy, watching as it disappeared underneath the porcelain froth of waves and the thick incrustation of salts.

Poseidon turns his head to face the shores. He detests and adores shores; he loves how they acts as a bridge into the abysmal depths and he is repulsed at how they mark as the exit from these depths. And, he is cautious of the fact that atrocious events occur because of and on shores. Each gold-dipped grain of sand had seen terrible events—such as a girl struggling to escape from the possession of a madman.

Her steps are not brisk enough, he is catching up; sands fly every moment her shoes stomp and she sprints for her life.

Arms crash and propel, the restless waves aiding him to anchor his feet on solid ground. Heels dug into liquefied sand, platinum droplets of salt water rolling off his frame—each drop a platinum tear in the sunlight. Blonde locks were plastered to the forehead, lips were persistent in catching breaths, and lungs tasted air and begged for more. But, his feet had fastened and jumped into a sprint, advancing towards the pair. The world dissolved into splatters of white and he found himself inching closer to the lunatic. Then, he cursed. Shit, I didn’t think about what I was going to do.

Poseidon muses about the minutes, when his knuckles had found home into the crook of a man’s nose and he attempted to murder him using the sea. He didn’t take his life, but he had flashed images of a hurricane at him and he had ran off, fear bulleting through his veins. He had been in contact with the salt waters, their subtle kiss on his skin charging life into him. This time, he is weighted down by the scorching sun. He doesn’t muse about the sunlight, instead he pictures the motion of waves and their characteristics—their subtle flow that can be shifted into violent, lethal flows if required. And, he doesn’t muse about his actions, instead he virtualizes a furious wave scattering a boat into a pile of wood.

One arm flew and dug into his shoulder, breaking his sprint and causing his frame to fall to the sand. The enemy had fallen but he knows he will get back on his feet. He didn’t know he would outstretch his one hand and the silver gleam of a knife would be present when he did. Poseidon evades as the knife comes swinging at him—or else crimson would be splattered on the sands.

Or else he would have died on the ground instead of in the sea.