still, the sand continued to cling. The air—like raw earth—remained in his nostrils. The shriek of the wind—lunacy given sound—was a song that haunted him. The pain was ripe, fresh and new; this, he accepted. Enjoyed. Because it meant he yet lived, that the promise of retribution had not been stolen. But the sand, the air, that wail of madness…those were not things he’d expected to live on, to trail behind him like a deep, dark wake. To hunt him. Mock him.
