are some things that can be taken away and never given back.
He is crying as he opens his eyes and consciousness enters his head.
The sun shone a little too brightly into his eyes, as he lay sprawled on a beach of black sand. The air was dry and salty as it passed over his parched lips. He was thirsty; he was hungry. That he knew. He was rather good at telling when he wanted food.
Something is missing.
He pushes himself onto his feet, sand working its way into his bare feet, scratching the thin skin between his toes. There he stands for moment after confused moment as the wind whispers to him a story with a happy ending, one that he cares not for.
The black sand beneath his feet, the cool peppermint air in his nostrils, the sky colored pink. The ocean, oh how blue it is, lapping at the night-colored shore the waves have raced to meet.
He does a double take. There is a trail of blood leading from the ocean to where his body lay sprawled until a moment ago. He looks down to his own body, half-shocked to see a gash across his stomach and chest from which bright red blood pours, frothing and bubbling on the black sand below.
He is not sure what to do for many long seconds before turning and heading up the beach to a large blue-tinged tree. Perhaps one of its abnormally large leaves could cover the wound, at least until it stops bleeding.
There was someone, a long time ago that suffered from a scar across his chest. For a painfully short moment there is a name that almost comes to the boy's lips, but the wind carries it away with the faintest scent of sake and sweat and blood, an oh so familiar but tormenting and unknown scent.
The leaves of the tree are too high for a boy his age to reach. He isn't sure how old he is, but concludes that he must be very young if he can't reach the leaves of a tree this height. And yet, at the same time, he knew he could reach the leaves. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he knew he could do it. Somehow he could do it, but it's not like anyone can stretch his or her body like rubber.
He gives up and picks an older, dead leaf off the ground. It crumbles between his clumsy hands, the onset of fatigue from the loss of blood. He tries again, this time with a leaf that look as though it fell recently. It bends well, so he takes off his red vest and wraps it around his torso. With his shirt in his hands and his wound covered, he is content to return to the black-sand beach he was standing on a moment ago.
This time, the rolling waves have a gift for him. He cannot tell what it is from the distance he is from it, so he strolls casually up the beach to the water's edge and picks it up, brushing the slime and algae off it to reveal…whatever it was underneath.
It was polished, smooth and white, but badly scratched. A piece of wood that had broken off from whatever it had been a part of, the size of his fist and as light as a piece of wood its size should be.
turned it over. There was tiny writing in a fancy black script that
To find the All Blue.
Underneath it, in a messy handwriting that could only belong to a child, half cut off where the wood had splintered:
too beecom the pyrat k-
stares at the writing for what seems to be an eternity as the pits of
hell open up in his stomach.
Instinctively, his hand reaches up to his head and feels only grimy and sandy hair underneath.
No. It can't be.
The rolling waves offer no pity for the child, vomiting and wailing for what once was and what will never again be.
I am so very sorry. This is because so many fanfics either omit death or focus on the death of one single character. Please, when you review, don't just flame because you don't like what happened. That won't change anything.