The Depths

Part 2

When the pain finally subsided, he was able to muster up the strength to apply his basic knowledge of medicine to stop the bleeding, disinfect his wound with a splash of whiskey, and apply a bandage made from a worn strip of cloth. He was sure to limp toward his crude living quarters and strap himself into the boots he kept next to his roughly constructed wooden bed before he entered the kitchen again, still feeling the sharp bites of pain run up his spine with every step, which were luckily becoming muffled due to his intoxication. He carefully approached the broken window, sweeping the larger shards of glass away with the edge of his (now protected) injured foot. The rain had now formed a sizable puddle on the crude wooden floor, which, mingled with the blood, had now been dyed a misty scarlet.

He attempted to peer through the window at the small, rocky isle which he regarded as both his second home and as his own solitary ring of hell. The rain fell hard, and the sheer wind blew the salty spray directly into his eyes. He instinctively turned his face away and blinked repeatedly to rid his eyes of the unwelcome salty solution, before he recognized the familiar human silhouettes that were slowly shambling over the rocky atoll.

"...The hell are they doin' 'ere?" He slurred, wincing in pain from accidentally leaning onto his wounded leg. His eyes stung from the brine, and after retrieving a kerchief from his table and wiping the moisture from his face, he peered out again, and found, due to the illumination given by a particularly vivid flash of lightning, that there was no one on his lonely North Atlantic island.

He limped to his quarters, withdrew a heavy raincoat from an old, splintery chest of drawers, and returned to the kitchen. He pulled a hammer and a mason jar full of nails from a cupboard, and attempted to cover the broken window, waterproofing it until the storm subsided. He found that most of the water was deflected by the addition, and returned to his place at the lonely kitchen table. He sat carefully, smirking from his victory over the storm, but was suddenly reminded of his injury when his boot hit a hard object beneath the table.

Cursing in agony, he bent down to see the object which had caused him this discomfort, and became immensely perplexed at the sight of it. A large, smooth stone, nearly a foot in diameter, had somehow found its way under his table. In his drunken state, he could make out some peculiar circular patterns over its entire body, and it appeared to be too perfectly formed to have been weathered away randomly by the sea. He knelt on the ground and reached for it, and found that it was far heavier than it looked. The black stone was perfectly smooth, save for the light circular engravings, and was surprisingly cool to the touch.

The man took a great amount of effort to drag the stone out from below his table, but could not lift it. It seemed to be as heavy as a stone three times its size. As he examined it, he noticed a slight glimmer in the place beneath its former resting place below the table. He reached under and retrieved the shining object: a shard of broken glass. His eyes widened, first in confusion, then in fearful realization as he realized that the cause of the window's breaking was not the wind, but this impossibly heavy stone.

For a second, the wind almost sounded like a child screaming.