Blood In The Water
She sat cradling his head. He was cold. So cold. She wanted to know he was alive, know he was well, remember his smiling face. Now a grimace. A bloodied grimace. The water was at her feet. It lapped over the cold, metal steps of the boat as she cried. Salt and copper filled her nose. She could hear screaming. People were always screaming. They wouldn't stop screaming. Always screaming. She didn't care. He was dead. Why should she ever care? He was dead. Nothing else could ever matter. Nothing else to ever care about. He was dead. A bloody arm floated past the boat. It still wore threads of his white shirt and his yellow jacket. They blended in with the red, green, and blue of the water. She looked at it, numb to the sensations of further tears. She hunched over the head in her hands. She leant down and grasped the other hand, still attached to what was left of his torso. She could hold his hand again. It was cold. It was stiff. But it was his hand. The hand he held he with,...