Cry

 The air was thick with the scent of rotting flesh and saltwater, as if the very fabric of reality was slowly unraveling. A lone figure stood on the deserted beach, their silhouette etched against the blood-red sky. They were dressed in tattered rags, their body bent by an unseen weight. As a lone tear trickled down their cheek, they raised their eyes to the heavens and let out a primal wail that seemed to echo through the very core of existence. It was a cry of anguish, of despair, of hopelessness. But most of all, it was a cry for help.

The waves crashed against the shore, their rhythmic symphony drowning out the sound of the figure's cries. The wind whipped through their hair, chilling their skin to the bone. They took a shuddering breath, trying to steady themselves against the onslaught of emotion. Around them, the world seemed to spin out of control, a chaotic whirlpool of pain and suffering.

As if in answer to their unspoken plea, a faint light flickered on the horizon. It grew brighter, more defined, until it became a beacon of hope in the darkness. The figure squinted, trying to make out what it was, but it was still too far away to tell. Was it a mirage? A figment of their tortured imagination? Or was it real? They took a tentative step forward, their heart pounding with anticipation and fear. The light grew brighter, drawing them inexorably closer. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was someone out there who could help them.