eskil_douglas

It must stop soon, it can’t go on ... oh Lord.

Rough seas, a blessing in disguise. He knows that. He knows that if it weren’t for the endless vomiting he’d be dead by now. The poison would have had a chance to do more than what is currently going on, it would have killed him; now he’s just hurling blood and bile. Truly a blessing.

Wave after wave. Wave after wave.

Just like with the sprained ankle that saved him from being pushed in front of the train. Saved him from being crushed to bloody pulp. Saved him from death but made it harder to run from it. To keep running from it. Run from those who want him dead. For profit. All sent out by the one who wants to save his face.

But it must stop soon, it can’t go on. Must stop soon. Or there will be nothing left.

He would cry if he had the energy for that. He would yell out his despair. He wishes that Becquerel were with him, his angel, his lover, his soul and heart. He wishes that Becquerel were here to save him, to hold him, to keep him from...

Wave after wave, it must stop!

He would wish for Becquerel, his love, if he didn’t know how impossible that thought is. But he will get there. He will get back to London. He will see him again. He will be free. They will stop hunting him and all shall be well.

It can’t go on, it must stop. It will stop, and all shall be well.

Wave after wave, it will stop, it must.