The clouds rumbling and the sky flashing with zaps of a chilling white, it was almost as if the Gods themselves were thrashing about the heavens in turmoil and chaos. The ocean was pelted with the artillery of the rain, the seas turned into a messy mist of madness. She was uncontrollable, Old Blue, and the world was angry at itself for what havoc it may have became a catalyst for. Even the lighthouse could not peer into the thick wrath that was Old Blue. The only one who had got to know her, the only mortal, was the most miserable mortal on the planet Earth. Judas Melan was not a sailor, fisherman, nor explorer. He was only one trying to escape what no one could know unless he told them himself. He rowed, and rowed, and the sky darkened into deep, warped colors that he could not see, for he was blinded by the sight of escape, which is the same of being blinded by your own mind. Precipitation began to pelt his head, slicking down the bit of brown, messy hair he had left. Empty booze bottles clinked in the floor of his small vessel, and it blended with the sound of small crackles of thunder he began to catch from the distance. But he soon forgot about them. Escape, escape, escape, o, for this man nothing else could exist, until a wicked crack pierced through the sky and struck the sea beside him. His boat was filling with water quickly and he figured at this point that his rowing was pointless. He let his fingers go into positions of ease, and he watched his oars get carried away. The world was a spinning whirl of murky blue, and his mind was the same. Picking up one of the rum bottles, he nursed the last tiny drop out, cursed under his breath, and tossed the bottle to sea. He then chuckled and screamed, screamed as loud as he could for the ocean to hear, "YAH, RUNNIN' AWAY FROM ME TROUBLES AND YOU DROP YOURS ON ME TOO? WELL, HAVE AT'E THEN!" And so she did. His boat was flipped, and he quickly had succumbed to the depths. By morn, the sea was gentle, and waves caressed the sides of a small wooden boat, lapping around it. Judas was gone, and the heaven shined lights upon his vessel, and Old Blue herself seemed to morn the man with the song of a dozen birds voyaging overhead. He was gone in an accidental lashing from another's pain, yet, he wanted to escape in the first place. Some deem fate cruel, some consider it to work in odd ways, but for Judas, he drifted away as he always wanted to, and nothing up till that point in his life had made him happier.