from the w r e c k a g e {ems and alexxx}

Verne found himself at the seaside. It was where he first learned to crawl, then swim, then walk. In that order. The salt on the breeze permeated the air and he inhaled deeply, his legs crossed in front of him. His hands at his sides gripping the wet sand and letting it fall through his fingers. Grip and then fall. Like sand in an hourglass. His body ached from his most recent training session – climbing. As there were only cliffs overlooking the ocean to dive from, but not really climb from the ground up, his trainers had seen fit to deck out the Training Center with climbing areas, ranging from beginner all the way up to advanced. His shoulders and arms had never been so sore. But he was getting stronger. He was becoming more prepared. More agile. More lethal.

You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.

His throat ached for a cigarette. Verne loved to smoke, which his mother would beat him for. But its relaxing, he assures himself. His friends would walk down to the water’s edge, not far from where he was seated now. The salt mixed with the nicotine just felt right. But the silly boy had left his pack at home. Hidden in a sock drawer. Heaving a sigh, he returned his sights to the sea. To the horizon.

Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Sand falling from his fingers.

Tears on the mausoleum floor
Blood stains the Coliseum doors
Lies on the lips of a priest