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[color=Silver]	His autopilot was based on fear. Fingernails dug into the sand as he breathlessly dragged his scorched, tormented imagination across the island, toward the spring. There was not a clear set of emotions laid across his face. He drooped and staggered in his blinks, and his breath was akin to suffocation. Franciszek had callousness all across his skin, his mind and soul. So harshly did his chest burn, as though it were a pressurised valve awaiting eruption. Sickness plagued him from within. How much more could it hurt? As if he were allergic to the beach itself, everything was in accordance to a horrific reaction. The amphibian and its demise, the relished power of some other no-name's of his, all mixed in how brilliantly or sourly they relished in their abilities. There was no explanation. It was a cosmic confusion, a horror of the unknown and by all cases it terrified the living hell out of the boy. He was quiet. Alone even. A soul that hadn't been paid even in pittance. He was there, soulless. His contributions were like gales in a storm. So he crawled, onward ahead, as he isolated further away to the island spring.

	The water was still. Whenever he looked at it, there was no way to tell if it looked right at all. Something, if not everything, felt off. It was like an translucent pane of glass, awaiting its shatter. His fingers touched it and he confused its calm for aggression. He withdrew his hand and gagged on his own spit. Not one shade of comfort - the island had made its way through him. He despised it, and it despised him. There wasn't a way to comprehend any of the madness around him. How could he accept something so heinously against reality, so vicious in its mockery towards all that is normal? He ran his hand back into the spring. It burned again, like acid to skin, yet he kept going. He crawled further, and further, to escape it all, as with the spring came the allure of freedom. Yet after what he'd seen, what he'd felt, the doubtless sense that it was never a dream, was it possible to be free, and true, to remove himself from what he'd seen?[/color]

[color=EEFF53][b]"Just take me home..."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]A voice inside of him rebuked it, and asked him to stay, but Franciszek's body did everything else to let that notion go forth. He crawled into the spring.

	Back into the burning depths he went. In a downward spiral his body twisted and turned as the descent became a burning ascent. The further up he rose, he twirled upward into the burning heat of the water. He trusted himself enough not to scream and drown, and the submersion ended in the blink of a watered eye. Franciszek emerged in a blur, in a far more familiar place - a stall, with several pencil scribbles on the wall, and with a confused mess latched onto his head. His body was soaked and his heart was ablaze. But he did not get up. He gasped, in a panic, then settled, and Franciszek spent a while sat, with his legs against his chest, back to the stall wall, and he breathed slowly.[/color]