The roar of the waves as they broke on the shore was relentless, a deafening cadence as they crashed over body of the small boy that lay face down in the sand. He was still, lifeless, but for the battering of the waves as they pushed and pulled at him. Not even the seagulls circling above on the prevailing winds, peering down with hardened, dried black eyes that knew no conscience, knew quite what to make of his appearance. It was as if he was himself an aberration - as if the ocean itself had plucked him from nothing and spat him out in a tangle of limbs. They could have picked the eyes from any dying thing, but they didn't yet touch the solitary figure lying tossed up on the beach. Slowly the boy began to stir, tiny, fledgling movements at first, the gulls above screaming into the wind as they watched with morbid interest, as if their fates and his were now intertwined on this desolate, wild strip of sand. As he opened his eyes, nothing could have prepared him for the light that pierced his eyelids, and he recoiled. He could feel his chest aching, burning; with a violent shudder he coughed and spluttered, every breath he took earned as he spewed forth a torrent of saltwater that had filled his lungs. Still, he waves were relentless, but he couldn't move, his body too weak, too exhausted; he could feel himself fading into white, collapsing back into the shoals as a shadow fell over him. A piercing screech from above filled the air - was it knowing laughter, or was it a warning?