ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀɴɢᴜɪɴᴇ ᴇᴍᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ | Bakugou Katsuki

𝟗

══════════════════

This cave was, among other things, a wonderfully charming place. If you were being honest, it's what kept you sane all this time, but even beauty had its expiration date where it concerned your voracious appetite for freedom. This constricting little place did little to quell your hunger for food nor the nagging pain growing on your swollen ankle -- which was now growing numb from how long it had been since you last moved it.

Six times you tried to wade through the water. Six times you failed. Six fucking times that stupid siren laughed -- barked -- at you with this sneer on his face, and six times you waddled back to your spot, only to curl up and will away the pain from your shrunken stomach.

That was yesterday.

Four days had passed since you'd last eaten, and you were running on fumes. If you continue at this rate, you'd no doubt transform into one of those shriveled heads you'd see on the display cases in front of those trippy voodoo vendors.

With a suppressed whimper, you fiddled with the cartridge of your pistol while idly listening in as the siren continued its ongoing battle with the water; splashing and barking angrily at the liquid as if it were some sort of sentient being. At one point, you might have found it entertaining, but now, it was really quite irritating. But maybe that was just the dehydration kicking in.

Just a while ago, you contemplated killing the fish bitch and cooking him; it wouldn't be considered cannibalism, would it?

It wasn't long before you felt the symptoms of your dehydration kick in. At some points of the day, you'd feel dizzy -- which wasn't all that bad, but then the fatigue would kick in, followed by the strong urge to drink the seawater. Though you knew that would only hasten your way to a watery grave.

Regardless, you tried that, and found yourself hacking out the contents of your stomach over the ledge. The siren must have found it amusing, or maybe that was a grimace; you really couldn't tell the difference these days -- because he seemed to be watching you more intently, as if he had nothing better to do than to watch you suffer. Granted, there wasn't much else he could do, but at the very least, he could spare you that condescending look and cut you some slack.

But he wasn't that kind.

You closed your eyes and relaxed into the plush sand, casting your mind to your early childhood -- of dry beaches and nights spent scampering on the sodden grounds of St. Mary's Island with Six.

While the siren attempted to pluck the pellet from his hip, you remained in that one spot on the sand, completely motionless in a fetal position. Of course, it wasn't like you could move. You were completely depleted of energy -- even breathing seemed hard these days. Your skin was dry and your stomach shrunken. It felt as if you'd aged several years.

You were so starved of food that any other thought was dashed from your mind. All you could envision behind the darkness of your eyelids was a silver platter of honey-roasted pig, slathered with a sticky sauce and piled high with pickled radishes, baked potatoes, and carrots -- followed by a pot of cream stew with lots of diced vegetables and pulled chicken; the cream blended to the right consistency; creamy and rich on your tongue -- the taste of milk and meat heavy in your stomach. You could practically smell it. Your tongue grew moist with the thought of sinking your teeth into a fresh loaf of crisp bread and downing a pint of beer; not the trashy English kind though. Maybe the Irish, or Norweigen type. Those viking-descendents sure made a mean brew. Then again, rum was more down your alley.