Prosaic.

Prologue

So, how did Felicity Atlas, of all of their family, end up here, alive, and stranded?

Well, unfortunately, the family had limited ways of bringing themselves to a peaceful end, especially being a Christian family who frowned upon suicide. They had a single pistol, with more than enough bullets for all of them. However, as stated, suicide was no-go. Naturally, Felicity, being queer, would not be able to go to heaven irregardless of how they died, and thus, Felicity Atlas at age 14 was bestowed upon the task, thanks to the adamant request of their parents, of shooting each and every one of their family members.

And once the task was done, they suddenly decided that they had a will to live. Horrified, of course, they swam as far as their weak legs and arms would take them. Little Felicity was overwhelmed with guilt at their actions, reasonably so, and what better way to process this guilt and bitterness than by ignoring it?

Felicity was in the middle of a seemingly empty and endless ocean. He clung to a makeshift raft of debris, consisting of roof shingles, ply boards, and a partially inflated donut floaty. He hadn't purposefully brought those makeshift things together; they had simply been floating around with piles of other various debris, and he clung to the first viable floating mass that he saw. It gave his legs a much needed break from the swimming.

The water was cold. Not bitterly, but cold enough to make Felicity shiver. Despite this, he was hot, parched, his mouth dry and his skin beginning to flake where it had been submerged in salt water for days. He felt weak, exhausted, and thirsty. Felicity never expected someone to save him; he simply thought about the end, and despite his will to survive, ultimately decided that it was inevitably impossible. He had virtually exhausted himself with swimming.

His fingers, swelled with water, gently dipped below the brown surface of the water and found where that pistol still lingered in his pants pocket. He wasn't even sure if it would still fire after being underwater for so long, though he wondered if it was worth a shot, pun intended, and considered attempting it on himself. He assumed that he deserved such an ending after what he had done, completely disconcerting the fact that he was coerced to do it.

And yet, he hesitated long enough for a sound to reach his ears. It wasn't the squawking of gulls and falcons and buzzards overhead, excited at the prospect of a meal called Felicity. It also wasn't the gentle yet soothing sound the small ripples in the water made as they lapped against his body and the wood he clung to. Instead, it the sound of voices, distant, unfamiliar, but real voices! And it was the sound of splashing, distant, odd splashing, but real splashing! He at first wondered if he was hallucinating after being under the sun and in the water for so long. He pinched himself, winced, wiped his eyes with dirty hands and blinked several times. He scanned the horizon with red eyes. The sun had begun to slowly sink into the west side of the sky, shrouded behind subtle pale clouds, casting long shadows against anything that moved atop of the dark, murky water.

Casting long shadows across the darkening water in the far distance was a small boat. It was a wooden row boat, with a tipped front end that seemed pinched and raised slightly, and a round, white painted bottom that could be seen from below the water. It held four wooden benches from one side to the other with plenty of legroom in between, and then four loops, two on either side, where four oars were attached. There were several folks in the boat, and it floated gently along the bumpy surface of the expansive ocean with the oars remaining still. They did not see Felicity.

Felicity wanted to survive.

Shaking extensively, he pulled himself up on his elbows onto the lightweight ply boards, nearly pushing them underwater in the process, and actually accidentally pushing away some of the shingles that had been attached to the whole thing. They slid off of the boards, and thunked against the surface of the water before slowly making their way to the fallen Atlantis below.

His voice was hoarse, dry, croaky, his throat sore, his tongue thick and dry, his lips chapped and swollen. Still, as loud as his poor voice could manage, Felicity yelled. He hollered loudly.

"Help! Over here! Help me!" His voice was quieter than he intended it to be, and in such a condition his words were a bit difficult to understand. And yet, a few of the persons occupying the small boat turned and scanned in the direction of Felicity's presence; and then, one pointed and hollered in response, shielding their eyes from the sun with a hand. Felicity sighed, shouting again, waving a weak arm in the air. He watched as the ripening sunlight covered his dark skin with vibrant, deepening orange, reflecting off of the water, and almost managed a smile. It took nearly an hour for the distant row boat to reach him, but it did at long last.

The small group pulled Felicity out of the water collectively, his legs and arms jelly and seemingly useless, and then plopped his soaking self horizontally across the wooden benches of the boat. He coughed, gently thanked them, and then immediately passed out.