Wheeling Gull Isle and truth be told, i never was yours

the boy is battered and waterlogged, a limp mess of fur and flesh and bone swatted around by the sea — until finally she tires of him and hurls him upon the shore, abandoning her toy on a lonely stretch of beach with only the moon as witness. that is where the first flicker of consciousness returns to the bruised shell, a brief flash of the porch lights as if to say he was home, but not quite ready to receive anyone yet. he'd gone somewhere else for a moment; he'd felt it, though he doesn't know that now. into death's arms for the briefest kiss, then ripped away at the last moment. he's lucky, though he doesn't feel that way now.
sand-covered and suffocating, the boy's chest heaves. once, twice — and then he's coughing, hacking saltwater into the wet sand around him as the tide recedes. his throat burns, his eyes burn — and suddenly he realizes that's all he can feel. his limbs are numb. a blind, senseless panic seizes him then; he's dead, or going to die, surely. this must be the end. but the water is coming back, he can hear it, and even in his despair he still feels the will to live. summoning the last of his strength, he drags himself further up the sand, until it feels dry and crumbly beneath him. then he collapses, losing consciousness as quickly as he'd found it. with his last thought, he realizes he can't even remember his own name. and then it's dark again.