We almost drowned but I didn't care, the only thing in that moment that I cared about was the box from the museum. It held the key to all of this.
The dry sand feels odd under the weight of my body. With each cough I spit out more and more water until my lungs are empty.
A cold hand cups my shoulder and shakes it. "Hey," the familiar voice echoes in my ears. I refuse to open my eyes and look at (them). "Are you alright?"
The sound hits my ears but doesn't click in my head. My eyelids start to feel heavier than before, so opening them is no longer an option. I go to speak but my voice only echoes in my head.
"D-don't worry, I'm going to try to get you out of here." I feel tugging on my body before being dragged along the sandy ground. (They) drag me along the ground slowly, and before long I start to feel the cut of rocks beneath my body. "You better be okay after this." (They) mumble.
Being unable to do anything causes me to get stuck in my thoughts. What if I don't make it out of this OK?
I began to get paranoid. Everytime (they) stopped, I felt a panicked weight crash onto my chest, anxious about the thought of (them) crashing and burning.
...
"I think we're going to be safe here for the night."(They) say after a long time of walking. I hoped that I could speak just so (they) would know that I'm still alive. Other than my breathing, I must look dead; I probably feel it to (them) too.
YOU ARE READING
Unfinished Short Stories
ContoA collection of random "short stories", aka things I wrote without meaning and never finished.
