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Panic, mania, fear. Dead calm. Set. Repeat.
Panic, mania, fear. Dead calm. Set.
Repeat.
A vicious cycle of constant uneasiness, headaches and nerves consuming one's sanity bit by bit leaving an empty shell of a dumb human.
A skeleton of who you used to be — the flesh corroded, biten off and burned left behind to rot and eventually erode off with the soil settling into the depths of the raging sea which longs for every piece of humanity, an insane driving hunger devouring the weak.
Only a shadow remains.
And that is what she seems to be, hovering through the rustic wood walls of The Wreck, eyes fixed ahead, voice monotonous.
Her mind lays elsewhere, in the worry and safety of her dearest.
She shuffles around the restaurant, quietly obeying orders for the promise of helping him awaits her at the end of her shift.
There is a bounty on his head now.
25 thousand dollars for the Sheriff killer, dead or alive.
The murderer. The psycho. The poor boy from The Cut whose gigantic ambitions led him astray and eventually compelled him to pull the trigger on the county protector.
Oh how awful it is to think that they once trusted him, fed him and let him freely scurry around town only for him to betray them this way in the end.
Traitor, a marked bounty on his head.
He's dead meat now — they say as they sip their iced mimosas, their hundred dollar sunglasses resting atop their heads and their shrewd eyes regarding every breathing entity from the South with deep hatred and contempt.
Payback, bitch — a few teenagers think, running amok on the beach, their imported swimsuits adoring their rich bodies, the sweat sheening off their skin dripping like gold under the bright sunlight.
