Sin (Wattys Winner)

The cold, padded walls of Room W17 felt both like a prison and a sanctuary. Sin Matthews, patient 16703, shifted uncomfortably against the unyielding cushion, the white glare of the ceiling lights doing little to soothe his agitated mind. He’d told them, time and again, about the coin, about the disasters, about his sister, Joy. They just nodded, scribbled notes, and increased his dosage.

Today, however, felt different. A tremor, subtle at first, ran through the room, a precursor to the true madness that was about to unfold. He had tried to end it, to escape the burden of his existence, only to find himself in a place far stranger than any mental ward. He had prepared for immolation, for oblivion in the heart of a thousand-degree flame, but fate, or perhaps his own twisted gift, had other plans.

He closed his eyes, remembering the last moments in his cell, the click of the lock, the sterile scent of antiseptic. When he opened them again, the stark white was replaced by a blinding, shimmering expanse. The scent of salt and seaweed assaulted his senses, and the rhythmic roar of breaking waves filled his ears.

He was no longer in Room W17. He was on a beach.