The scene opens with an aerial view of a dark ocean. That murky feeling preceding a storm, with winds and rain caught in the throat of an eerie fog. Slowly, into focus comes a small body afloat in the vast sea of foreboding gray and blue. The view is spiraling, eventually resting upon a cavern, a hole, no larger that a child's fist. The hole is in the body in the water. The body is that of a small girl, her tarnished golden hair in strands about her heard, dirty because of the putrescence around her numb, still figure. Her eyes are open, blank, staring back up to the hazy atmosphere. Lifeless, yet frightened. So frail and fragile even after this mock innocence is of no help.

A perfect circle bores a hole through her white gown, as if some massive bullet shot and lodged itself within her heart. Strangely, her heart is this bullet, lying in its cavity, disconnected from all that held it in place. A perfect circle, this is its bed of flesh and blood. The body begins so sink, painfully slowly. As it does, the heart rises out of the chest, with no ribs to encase it. She falls through the water; it rises to the surface, and beats. The beating drives it, and creates the illusion of swimming.

Miniscule waves drive it to a dock. Upon this small, wooden pier rest two boys, fishing. One is lying down with his knees bent over the edge. The other, ever alert, sits above the water, pole in hand. They are not tired, nor hungry, nor fearful. The heart comes into view and crashes politely against the timber. The restful boy sits up suddenly and peers beneath his feet. He sees it, he wants it, he takes it, and bites in. With pointed teeth and glaring grimaces they rip off all the excesses of the heart, spitting the bloody pulp in the already troubled depths. Never once do they tear the muscle itself, rather, veins and arteries that once connected it for a purpose. Once the heart is smooth and free of tendrils, the ready boy gently drops the heart back and resumes his waiting.

A current has formed from prior stillness and the heart is being propelled by something more urgent. Farther out, a colossal head has risen of the water, that of a wrathful young man. This head is supported by no body, only a long, clear pipe, poised directly below the base of the skull and tapering off somewhere below sight. It possesses sticky, stringy black hair, the texture of seaweeds. The tiny amber eyes reflect nothing outside of themselves. They are truly void and empty. The current increases, sweeping the heart into a now gaping mouth to be swallowed, seemingly crushed between malicious garnet lips.

The heart reappears, sliding down the aforementioned pipe. It is not a heart at all, rather a string of deep red tar. As it slides, the head rises out of the water, pulling the pipe with it. Just after it has fully emerged, the now liquefied heart plops into the water. It begins twisting and churning as if in some internal battle. Fashioning itself into a sort of cylinder, the gel changes. Starting at one end, it solidifies into black scales, forming a snake. Once this transformation is complete, then snake swims off, eventually coming across its origin, her body. Creeping slowly at first, and then speeding through the water, the serpent comes up to her leg at an angle, and bites. Not a second after having removed its miniature fangs from her thigh, the snake swims away to the abysmal depths. It will not return now or ever.

Her eyes are focused. Looking at the hold in her chest, to be seen is new skin, growing over and patching what was never broken. The patch is completed just as she awakens. She does not cry out, but rather, blinks in a strange rhythm as some darker pressure carries her body up from the deep.

Fully aware of her situation, she came to rest at the dock. Both boys were alert, then, and they leaned over the start at this damp child attempting to pull herself up with her frail arms. They each took a hand helped her to stand above with them. Now, beyond the dock, she saw for the first time a forest, so dense that only the first trees were visible. The branches were gnarled and twisted, almost demonic. A fog was billowing from the undergrowth, reaching down the dirty corridor, which lead to her feet. She did not look back at her ocean, or her boys. Nor did she feel their tug at her wrists one final time as she let go and started down her path, barefoot and heartless.