The Deep Blue Secrets
Whether it be of the sea or the sky, there had always been a certain mesmerism that the colour had for him. It came more from the sky than from the sea; he would often find himself alone and naked in a field at night, staring upwards. It was those nights that frightened him the most. The same things always happened: he would awaken from his stupor, assess his surroundings, and then stare down at his body in horror. He would find blood on him, but not his own. With no memory of the event he was would feel empty, hungry for something that he could not quite name; he could almost swear that he saw a veil descend over him when he’d wake up, covering the truth.
Living like this held no charm for him. He could not seek help . . . And who would help him if they knew his secret? Who would believe him, or better yet: if they did believe him, what would they do with him? He was not himself, but then he never truly was.
His only solace was found in his sleep. In his dreams he was free from his cumbersome body, which he shed like a snake’s skin. The true form that hid in the daylight was sinuous, graceful, with a hideous strength. Free from his prison, he would take to the skies, searching, thirsting for one like him. Before the sun rose above the horizon he would return to his body, empty and alone.