The sun had risen when he reached the island, when he threw himself down on the black shore. She was waiting for him, glittering, eternally ready, relaxed, fearless.
“It went bad,” stammered Jack, rubbing his hands through the black sand. She curled her long fingers around his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. He could see that her lips were dry and white. He wanted to stain her mouth with his own blood, he wanted the pain she held.
Jack looked down, unwilling to meet her eyes. “I don’t want to remember what happened, I don’t want to feel this,” he shook and pulled at his shirt, a button popping as his mechanical arm tore the cloth, “I want it to stop.” He made himself look at her eyes then, those slits of darkness in an ocean of white. Then the film of his memory ended, and he was gone.
-A scene I’m cutting from a short story I’m working on.