The back door slams shut. The quaking force sends a shudder through the kitchen countertops. The tremor enough to cause the tip of the paintbrush to move just a fraction too far to the left and ... there goes the north star ... more like north splodge now.

I daren't look up. It's not worth it. Eye contact only aggravates him when he's in this state.

My father; a tall, skinny, sullen, rake of a man, staggers through the small porch door. His arthritic fingers uselessly groping at nothing but air and shadows. I chance a quick glance, just to make sure he isn't injured, or incontinent. Not the first time I've hosed him down at the back step. His glassy eyes wheel around in his sunken skull, their once hazel colour now dull and murky. Too young, he's too young to look this old.

His parched and cracked lips smack for the taste of something more appealing than water as he sways through our tiny kitchen, gaze fixated on the fridge. Dad has a thirst; a never ceasing thirst for gin, brandy, beer, or whiskey. Anything he could get his idle fingers on, but none of it ever satiates his need. Nothing takes away his sickness. It's a pity.

Meekly, I still my paint stained fingers and lower the paintbrush. The last time Da had barged in on me painting he threw the precious - and extortionately expensive - tubes of paint in the garbage along with the portrait I'd slaved over for weeks. I'm not prepared to lose another labour of love. It's not his fault. His memory is worse now. Doctor says that's to be expected.

"There's lentil soup in the microwave, I can heat it up for you now, or you can ke—"

"Soup! Always feckin' soup!" Da growls and bashes a chair in his irritation, jamming a wobbly finger my direction. "If you spent less time drawing silly pictures and more time acting like a grown woman, out earning proper money, we'd eat like kings...selfish bitch."

I recoil. Carefully easing the canvas off the table and moving it out of reach. He doesn't mean it. I'm not a child and well able to brush his insensitive insults off. He's nothing but a poor man, sick with a selfish illness that consumes his daily life. But, I'm all he's got. We've all each other's got in this whole world. When the drink wears off he knows that. Just not right now.

"Where's the lager?" He hangs off the fridge door, swinging on its hinges.

"We've only a few tins left, Da." I move to steady the door so he doesn't careen straight into the dining table.

"Well who drank them?" He roars, pressing his unwashed face into mine. The smell of stale booze and rotting teeth assaults my nostrils, but it's been a long time since I gagged at the smell, though it still makes the eyes water.

"You, Da." I sigh and grab a fistful of his sweater, half-guiding, half-dragging him through to the lounge, all whilst he erupts into a slew of colourful curses with not one comprehensible syllable between them. "It's alright, I'll get you some on the way home from work tonight. The good stuff. I promise."

He grumbles something and takes a swing for my head. I dodge and lose grip on his sweater. The release sends him staggering backward, and with one ungraceful shout he lands on the couch face first.

"Oh, Da." I sigh, and reach to try and prop him up.

"Get away!" He muffles from the cushion, him limbs flailing uselessly.

"I will when you sit up." I try to slip a hand around his chest, to get enough leverage that maybe it'll be enough to flip him right-side-up, but he's not having any of it.

"Get away on with ye!" He barks, his fist slamming into my gut.

The punch is strong enough to land me against the coffee table. I grab the edges and double over, wrapping an arm around my middle to hug in the pain. I swallow the tears. He doesn't mean it. He's just sick. Besides, it's not the worst.

"Okay, alright, I'll leave you alone." I cough and reach for the doorframe to stretch out of the pain still centred in my gut.

"Stupid bitch," he gargles out the insult whilst burrowing his head into the sofa cushions.

He doesn't mean it.

"Awk, Da, what would you do without me?" I chuckle, though it's strained and I'm pretty sure I'll be walking funny the rest of the night.

"Piss off," he growls and swipes his fists, though I'm far enough away to know it's not me he's swiping at. "I said piss off you devils. Get out."

"There's no one there," I say, those tears starting to gather again. The pain in my gut travelling to my chest as I watch him, staring at some unseen hallucination. "Da, I'm gonna call Doctor Bailey in the morning. I think we need to up your meds."

"Screw Doc Bailey. And screw you, stupid bitch," he mutters, but mercifully rolls himself onto his back. "You let these things into my house. Lettin' them steal my drink and eat our food. Yer as daft as yer mother."

He doesn't mean it. He'll be fine in the morning.

"Okay, Da. I'm sorry," I mutter and move into the kitchen again, leaning on the countertops until I reach the fridge and pull out the last pack lager. By the time I return to the living room he's found the television remote and is staring vacantly at the screen. I'm not even sure if he knows what's on. "Here," I say and set down the cans. "That'll do you until I get off."

He barely grunts but takes the first tin and, despite his earlier motor issues, snaps it open and begins to sip. The moment it touches his lips is the moment I see the tension slowly start to ebb away. His shoulders slacken along with his awareness, which isn't exactly sharp, but for a moment the turmoil in his soul seems to calm and if I pretend—just close my eyes—I can make believe it's just my Da enjoying a can with the game. Though, I can't kid myself, it was never just one can. Still, I remember a time when he functioned alright. A time when he tried. Maybe there's no reason to try anymore.

I reach to lift the old cordless phone, yellowed with the numbers thumbed off the buttons, and set it on the cushion beside him. He barely glances at it.

"Call me if you need anything," I order. "And remember the soup in the microwave."

He grunts.

"I'll be home late."

"Remember the lager." He mutters, as I reach the backdoor to pick up my coat, keys, and rucksack. I'll wash my hands at Teddy's.

"Don't you worry, Da, I'll not forget." I step into the cold winter air and bristle at the frigid wind. How he walked from the pub in nothing but a sweater I'll never know? I'll have to give Tess my number, she can call me to pick him up if the nights turn colder. He'll catch pneumonia if he continues. "Love you, Da," I shout into the house, savouring the last dregs of heat. I don't wait for a reply as I drag the door shut and crank the key in the rusty lock—there hasn't been one in years.

He doesn't mean it. It's not his fault. He's sick.

* * *

The back-of-house staff room at Teddy's diner has seen better days. The overhead fluorescent lighting gives off a tinny hum and a detectable flicker that, if you hang around too long, would cause a blinding headache. It's probably one of Teddy's grand plans to keep his staff from skiving too long.

The door to the kitchen swings and Mary saunters in. Her sleek dark hair pulled up in an immaculate ponytail, her make-up like something off a runway. I don't dare catch a glimpse of myself fin the smeared mirror nailed to the changing room door. I don't need too. My hair is wild and untameable on most days, so it's safer in a braid or wrangled into a messy bun atop my head. As for makeup, well, I've only recently mastered liquid liner, no one in the right mind would let me near contour yet.

"Jaysus, you look a fright, Clara." Mary halts at the door and eyeballs me with one hand on her toned hip. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Thanks." I chuckle easing out of my uniform and rummaging for the faded Guns 'n' Roses tee that's probably a wrinkled mess at the bottom of my rucksack. "Just tired, Mary."

"Did you pull a double shift again?" She says and joins me on the cramped bench, unbuttoning the front of our god-awful salmon pink blouses.

"Ah, no." I shake my head. "Split, was here for breakfast run, then back for lates. Did doubles over the weekend though."

"Shit, girl, when was the last time you had a day off?"

She tosses her blouse at her feet and stretches a lean, tattooed torso across me to grab a slinky mesh of sequin material. I admire the pretty art on her side. The whirls and swirls. It looks amazing on her olive skin. On me, it would look like tread marks ... flabby tread marks ... like, from a truck with a flat tyre.

"I'm saving the time up, need it for this art show, in Galway," I say, quickly rearranging my features so they don't appear creepy.

"You're going to that?" She quirks a brow and wriggles into the skin tight fabric. A dress—or what might've been a dress except it lost a few inches.

"Yes." I nod, and grin, trying to quench the sudden burst of butterflies in my gut. "You know I think if I can get a spot in the gallery maybe some—"

"Right, illustrator," she interrupts, places her hands on her hips again, tossing that long ponytail over one shoulder. "Clara, honey, there's a lot more to life than painting pictures and working at this dump."

"I know but—"

"I'm just sayin' like, how many people from this godforsaken spit of land actually get somewhere in the arts?" She shakes her head, and returns to fishing in her bag.

"Lots of people," I reply, a bit bemused by the question.

"Right, but how many from our stupid town?" she says and procures a compact and shiny black tube, which she opens to reveal a dangerously, dark shade of red lipstick.

"There's always a first," I suggest with a shrug, wrestling into my ripped up skinny jeans, with their trademark splodges of paint which will likely never wash out.

"Babe, alls I'm sayin' is your wasting precious time." She expertly sweeps the red over her lips and presses them together. Again, I'm transfixed by the ease and the grace. It be all over my teeth if I didn't have access to proper mirror and excellent lighting. It amazes me how I can paint it on a canvas but lack the know how to paint it on myself. "Clara, sweetie, we're only young once. You're in your twenties. You should be out there in the bars, meeting people, making conquests ... you'll regret it ... life's too short, y'know."

"I'll heed that advice," I say and sling my rucksack over my shoulder. Mary looks me over like she hardly believes it. "I try to avoid bars, and drinking."

She doesn't say anything, but the way her eyes flicker away and then to her feet is answer enough. Everyone in this town knows about James Riley. A drunkard and a pest. Who's wife left him because of his rantings and silly stories about the fair folks and fairy rings. His insistence that he'd seen them. People say that's why he turned to drink, because he couldn't accept he was crazy. All I know is my mum never cared to take me with her when she left, and if not for a decent grandmother, I'd probably have landed in foster homes. As crazy as my father is, at least he stuck around, so I at least should stick around for him when he needs me the most.

"Well, if you ever want a night out on the town," Mary says, her gaze still not fully meeting mine. "You can always count on me."

I smile. A genuine one. Mary is the true party girl of our tiny, insignificant Irish town with it's one pub, two bars, this restaurant, and a Chinese takeout. She never made the cut for a place at Trinity college, claims she never wanted the college life, that she's happy keeping the local lads warm while the other girls play away. More attention for her. Like me, though, I think she hates it. I got a place at college, but dad took ill, another booze fuelled psychotic episode. With my grandmother freshly turning up the daisies, and the grief still too close for both of us, I decided to stay. A decision that stuck, and, like Mary, I'm still here three years later.

"I know I can," I say with a wink and she giggles. "Maybe when I get back from Galway?"

"Sure," she says with a bob of her head. "That be nice."

"It would," I reply and shuffle toward the door.

Mary, despite her charm and legs-for-days, is just as lonely as me, I think. She keeps encouraging me to get out there and live like she is, but is it living? Or, is it making the most of our lot? I'm not even sure if I want the answer as we offer each other weary smiles and half-hearted waves goodbye. We're too young to be this tired of life.

I force a wink and add, "look after yourself, Mary, don't break too many hearts tonight."

"Can't promise that," she calls back as I shut the side door and dash for the warmth of my car.

A gust of strong wind kicks up a pile of autumn leaves, the debris smacking off my cheeks. With a yelp, I fidget with the keys shoving them into the lock because I'm still driving Grandma's 1999 Toyota Carola that lacks any kind of working central locking. But hey, at least I have a car that works, and I don't have to hoof the five mile walk home because there's only one bus that passes through the town centre just three times a day. Miss it and you're screwed. Miss it in the rain and you're doubly screwed. Miss it on a night like this, with a storm brewing, and you're royally screwed.

I collapse into the front seat, stretch, and give a long loud yawn. I turn the ignition and crank up the heat, though end up blowing hot air into my hands anyway because cars that are nearly the same age as me don't have automatic heating. But, at least there's the potential for heat. Things could be worse. Got to keep reminding myself of that. Things will get better if I stay positive. No one likes a negative Nancy, and no one's going to hire a gloomy illustrator. Mary's just jaded, I can make it, or at least I can die trying.

I keep imagining what it'll be like when I sell some art work, maybe illustrate some children's books. Do some local work. If there's one thing I know for sure it's that I can learn just about anything I put my mind too. I may not be book smart, and no fancy art college education, but I'm self-taught, and surely that means something. I've got the social media channels, I even do some commissions, it's not enough to earn a living but it's something. It's the right direction. I just have to keep going. Keep focused. I'll make a better life for us, and when I'm earning the good money I'll get dad the best care, and he'll have some peace. We'll both have some peace. Then maybe I can do some of that living that Mary talks about.

A smile—a tad on the whimsy side—ghosts my lips and I catch the hopeful glint in the rearview. If it's all a dream, I don't care, I'll dream it anyway. I must, otherwise what's the point?

Shifting the car into reverse, I suddenly spy the flicker of the store light in the distance, and groan. The lager. Ugh, it's not worth the drama of not bring it home, I've still got the throbbing in my gut to prove it. The store houses everything a small town like ours needs; a post office, a delicatessen, butchery and of course, the staple off-license. The only problem, it's nearing eight thirty, the sun is down, and the store is on the otherside of the town park. A square of scraggly green sporting a playground with a rickety swing and a broken see-saw, and some muddy playing fields. The only perk, it has a beautiful yew tree in the centre. The oldest tree in the town some locals say. Sometimes the council scrapes enough money together to string fairy lights around it at Easter and coloured lights at Christmas. It's the cheeriest thing in this forgotten one-horse-village, and my favourite thing about it. I've a ton of drawings just of that tree. It makes me smile. So, instead of wasting the diesel to drive around the green to get to the store, I zip up my coat, pull on my bobble hat, and brace the elements. Sure, the salty, west coast breeze will do me some good.

The wind begins to gather and I lift my gaze to watch the clouds darken, blotting out the moon and stars. A sinister tremble skitters along my spine. Stormy nights are hardly uncommon here but some nights carry a crackle in the air. I can never quite put my finger on it, and sometimes I wonder is it just my zany artist mind, but it's nights like these that make the folktales feel real. Like the banshee's howl bellows on the breeze, or the distant sway and creak of branches echoes the coming of something mysterious. The long shadows that cast the pavement under my feet seem to move and slither. It's nights like these that I can understand why my father believes his hallucinations.

I keep a brisk pace; both to keep warm and to make the trip as swift as possible. Nearing the tree, I catch a blob of black shadow hunched over a bench. Homeless? On a night like this? Slowing my steps, I have an attack of conscience. This could quite possibly be my father in any other reality, and wouldn't I want someone to stop for him?

"Excuse me?" I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my coat and lift my shoulders to somewhere about my ears. "Hi? Ar-are you okay?"

The bundle stirs and a long and lined face, sagged with years, peeps through the hood of an oversized dark duffle coat. The locks of their grey hair seem damp and stuck, like streaks of slimy seaweed across their face. For a moment I'm not sure if they are a man or woman, but it's their eyes that catch me. Large saucers. Too bright and luminous to match their haggard appearance. Maybe, like the rest of us here, they're too old before their time. This town seems to have that impact on it's residents.

"Better than you, I'd wager?" The voice, husky and cracked chuckles from deep inside the cocoon of the hood. The smile reveals a set of oddly straight teeth, pearly, and it seems a bit odd that a homeless person would have such great dental care. Must be dentures. "You look half froze in that flimsy thing?" A thin, withered hand pokes out from the slit in the coat, the extended finger bearing a silver ring with a green stone. An expensive looking jewel, emerald perhaps? And the silver of the rings itself, coils like branches snaring the stone in place. Maybe I misjudged, maybe they aren't homeless at all, just senile to be out on a night like this. The thought drags an eye roll out of myself because I'm the crazy chick out on a night like this. "You seem a bit lost, dear one?"

Dear one? How eccentric. I smile, it's not often I hear such odd endearments. "No, I'm just heading to the store." I jut my hand, still safely tucked in my pocket toward the general vicinity of my destination. "What about you? Seems a bit of a cold spot to take a rest?"

"I like this tree," they say, and twist to place that same gnarled hand against the bark. "She's old, like me. She whispers many a tale. Seems but polite to stop and listen, don't you think?"

"Y'know ... I quite agree," I say, cocking my head back to observe the tree, she's missing her fairy lights tonight but she's quite beautiful. "We spend a lot of afternoons together. I like to paint her."

"She likes that you too," they chuckle before retracting their hand and burrowing it back in the depths of their coat. "Be careful, you'll feed her ego, and she's almost unbearable as it is."

"You sound like you know her well?" I quirk a brow.

Definitely senile, probably escaped the nursing home. Not the first time residents escape and catch the bus to the town centre. It's about the only thing any of us know how to do, because there's nowhere else to go.

"I do, her soul and mine are one and the same. My name is Odhran, I don't believe we've met before?"

So male. An elderly chap. My heart churns over in my chest. This isn't right, he shouldn't be out here alone. I glance around the park. There's no signs of anyone that might be family, no clues, and no frantic orderly looking for an escapee.

"I'm Clara," I say and decide to sit myself on the sodden bench beside Odhran. "You're not from this part of town, are you sir?"

"My such mannerly pleasantries." He grins as if pleased by my decision to sit. "Would it surprise you to learn that I used to live not too far from this very bench?"

Definitely an escapee. "Really? I don't remember seeing you much, and we have pensioner Tuesday at Teddy's."

He laughs; a strange, bright, musical sound that gets caught in the gathering breeze and whistles through the trees branches. "Oh, I lived here long before Teddy's ever was. I doubt you'd remember me. Very few do these days."

"Wow, you must've moved away a while then, Teddy's has been here as long as I can remember." I chuckle, more to myself, at how little this village has changed. "Odhran, can I be so bold as to ask you something?"

"Timidity never found knowledge," he says but inclines his head as if I should continue. Such a strange gent. I imagine he must be some eccentric, I bet he has stories to tell. Maybe an artist like me who actually escaped this town long ago. I wonder what madness drove him back?

"It's a very wild night, and I don't suppose you've someone looking for you?" I furrow my brows trying to make the concern as evident as possible. "I can help you find somewhere to stay? Somewhere warm at least ... with food."

"That's very kind, dear one," he says but his shoulders sag and lets out a heavy sigh. "But I'm afraid it's not me that's lost."

"Oh, are looking for family?" I start scanning the park with renewed interest. Who would be so careless to leave this lovely soul out in the cold. Honestly, some people amaze me.

"Not looking," he answers, drawing his hands from the depths of his coat again to clasp in front of him.

That gorgeous ring glitters from his right forefinger. Being this close I can see what a giant of a gem it is, that thing must be worth a small fortune, he's lucky no one hasn't tried to mug him with a whopper like that in full view. He needs shelter and safety ... I wonder if Tess would have a number for the care home? Maybe they might be able to call social services.

Odhran looks up at me then, and offers a sad smile, those vibrant eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "He's isn't that kind of lost, Clara, but he is in need of help."

"Who's he?" I twist in my seat, reaching my hand to place over his in comfort. He looks so frail and broken.

"My son." He shakes his head. "My boy. He needs to be found and there's precious few who can reach him now."

"Oh." The word comes out more like a squeak. That kind of lost. Just like my father kind of lost. "I'm so sorry Odhran. I know what it's like to have a loved one who doesn't want to be rescued."

"Hmm." He folds his hands over mine and looks away, seemingly contemplating. "She told me." His bushy eyebrows rise up as if gesturing to the tree. "She sees your burden, dear one, and it is a heavy one. Such a pity."

"Everyone pities my father ..." I pause and consider the oddness. A tree can't tell him about the screw up that is James Riley, so this old oddball must frequent the local too. I shake my head and resist another eye roll. "Well, we can sit here and feel pity, or I can take you to the local watering-hole, Tess can pull us a decent Guinness and you can tell me some more about what this place was like before Teddy's. How does that sound?"

His smile widens as he shakes his head. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I do believe you," I reply, giving his hands a firm squeeze in mine. "But, it's getting kinda chilly and I can't feel my nose anymore so I'm thinking you must be the same."

"Such a kind, dear, little thing," he says, his head still slowly shaking from side to side. "But I do not pity your father, I pity you, and I pity us. Our time was too short, much too short, and we left nothing behind but footprints easily washed away by the tide of time."

"O-Kay." I sit up straight and gently, but with enough firmness, remove my hand from his. "I think maybe you've got me confused with someone, I'm still here, and so are you, so we better get somewhere safe before we catch our death in this weather."

"Yes, yes I would encourage you to take refuge," Odhran says and slowly pulls himself up onto banjo'd knees that barely lift from the ground as he shuffles away from the bench. "The air is thick with fire and shadow tonight. He wars." He lowers his gaze and continues to shakes his head. "They will be his undoing, and if he falls in that darkness ..." he pulls in a shuddering breath. "I failed him once. I pray my intervening here tonight will not anger her. I pray that my faith was not misplaced."

"What?" I push off the bench and reach for the clearly bewildered gent. He's talking nonsense, he's probably acquired a nasty infection. "Odhran, why don't you come with me, hm? It's cold and wet, and—"

"I thank you for concern, dear one," he says and reaches for my outstretched hand to clasp tightly in both of his. "But your road and mine must part now, for if it does not I fear more than one life will be lost this night."

"Odhran, don't be silly," I say as he pulls away, shuffling on crooked legs. "Odhran, please, let me help—" My phone blares to life in my back pocket. The vibration sending a shudder through my bones. I almost leap out of my skin. "Dammit. Odhran, wait just a minute." I call after him, and he slows his amble to look back at me with those eyes that remind of summer skies, with flares of gold and yellow, I'm still a little hypnotised when I press the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"Clara? Is this Clara Riley ... James' daughter?" The feminine voice, grizzled with cigerette smoke blurts down the dodgy line that crackles and goes in and out with each gale of wind that nearly pushes me off balance.

"Yes, I am ... hello?" I struggle to hold the phone and press a finger to my other ear, turning against the wind so I can hear her better. "Tess? Is that you?"

"Yes ...Clara ... your dad ..." Her voice disappears into static along with my nerve.

"Dad? What's wrong?" I frantically grapple with the phone, pressing the speaker volume as high as it will go and twisting in circles to catch a bar of signal. "Tess? I can't—the signal is awful—what's wrong?"

"James ... on the road ... accident ...Clara?"

My heart seizes in chest. He left the house. He's went back to the pub looking for more drink. He left on a night like that! Oh my god. He's been hit.

"I'm on my way," I cry, only to hear my voice reverberate back. "Have you called an ambulance?"

"Yes ... on ... way ...I'm ..." the line cuts off and I spin toward the car, but pause. Odhran?

I turn around to grab the crazy old coot and drag him with me, but he's gone. How the hell did he move that fast? I hold my head and twist in every which direction but can't see a trace of him. I don't have time for this. Stupid old fool. With a disgusted snarl I take off at a sprint for my car, hurtling the path with all the strength of the gale force wind propelling me forward. By the time I hit the bonnet of my car my lungs are burning and my calves screaming, but it's about all I can do to hold my keys in shaking fingers and dive into the driver seat.

The ignition starts with a worrisome chug, but she wheezes to life, and I touch the dash with my left hand and cross myself with my right. "Come on, baby, don't let fail me tonight."

Throwing her in reverse, I nearly take Teddy's sign down in the panic, and squeal out of the carpark. "I'm coming dad, hold on," I plead as I clutch the wheel and speed toward the coast road that climbs up to our lonely street with its handful houses. It's a journey I can take with my eyes closed. A right out of Teddy's, follow the road to the end, and take a sharp left onto the coast road. Then it's straight form there. But, it a treacherous road. Close to the water's edge and perpetually prone to rock fall and ocean debris from anger waves breaking the barrier. What happens if he got disorientated and went the wrong direction? He might've fallen into the sea, or hit his head on the rocks? Or, worse, staggered out in front of a car on those twisting, blind bends. Oh Da! Don't do this ... don't leave me too.

My foot pushes so hard against the accelerator that I'm certain a fraction more strength and I'll cleave a hole straight through the floor. The rain hammers the windscreen, and my wipers can't swish the torrent away fast enough.

The car hits the tightest curve in the road. The wheel judders, and I slam the brakes in my mistake, instead of letting her drift. The slick road is like a sheet of glass to the Carola's worn tyres.

My breath hitches in my throat. Knuckles turning white and strained against the wheel that jars out of my control.

In a moment the world slows into a series of mistimed steps.

Hitting the corner too fast. A knee jerk rookie mistake of slamming the brake. How I keep threatening to use some money to replace the balding tyres, but every payday there's been something more important to buy? Leaving Da alone, knowing fool well he was hallucinating. Selfish. Stupid. Misplaced mistakes. Seems strange to see them played before my minds eyes in a blink that lasts forever.

The headlights disappear when the front of the car smashes the barrier. And, again, like it's not truly happening in real time, I sense every crunch and bend as the car buckles with the force.

I didn't put my seatbelt on. Another mistimed mistake.

What a strange last thought? Like it might've saved me now.

Glass shatters around me, like crystal raindrops. Windscreen glass. My heart hits my stomach with the odd force of gravity. I feel the sharp slithers slice right throw skin. It should hurt, and maybe it does? But my heart has stopped in my chest, and the world is frozen, and all I can hear is the ocean, and the wind, and the scream of dying engines and broken metal.

Am I screaming too? If I am it's too late to tell.

Water. Hard, battering water engulfs me. It pummels straight down my throat and smashes apart my lungs. The ocean. The force of the crash sends me into the ocean.

A black abyss swallows me whole, gulping me down hungrily. There's no pain, just suddenness. One moment there's light, and life, and panic, and a heartbeat, and then there's ... nothing.

I'm nothing.

It's over ...

...what was it for?